viernes, 28 de diciembre de 2012

#TeamJung

Estoy escuchando Bastards (2012); me llegó el Líber Novus hace una semana; y me dio con hacer un dibujo:


Se lo texteo a mi primo (@fernguzman):

Yo: "Lo acabo de hacer. Es un mándala. Estoy leyendo a Jung." 

Yo: "Dame tu opinión." 

Yo: "...cuando puedas, claro." 

Fernando: "¿Qué es “mándala”?" 

Yo: "Es bien difícil de explicarlo. Creo que tiene que ver con el budismo." 

Yo: "No es del oeste—la “civilización” que heredamos de los BB (Baby Boomers)." 

Yo: "Mira el dibujo. ¿Qué te parece?" 

Fernando: "¿Qué representa el este?" 

Yo: "Fajardo, Portugal, Grecia, Irán, India, Tíbet, Mongolia, Tuva, China, Vietnam, Koreas, Japón, etc. Asia." 

Yo: "¿Qué piensas de el dibujo?" 

Fernando: "Creo que entendí, compara entre personas." 

Fernando: "¿Representa los campesinos con vida dogmática e incestual?" 

Yo: "¿Campesinos de una provincia bien pequeña (insular)?" 

Fernando: "Me perdí. Apoyo visual..." 



Yo: "Nice." 

Fernando: "Mándala = recoveco metafísico." 

Yo: "Estoy de acuerdo." 

Fernando: "El dibujo está nice." 

viernes, 21 de diciembre de 2012

Mancrush I: Albert Camus.

Camus
"The Central Sporting Club, on rue du Fondouk in Oran, is giving an evening of boxing which it insists will be appreciated by real enthusiasts. Interpreted, this means that the boxers on the bill are far from being stars, that some of them are entering the ring for the first time, and that consequently you can count, if not on the skill, at least on the courage of the opponents. A native having thrilled me with the firm promise that "blood will flow," I find myself that evening among the real enthusiasts."*
*The Myth of Sysyphus and Other Essays | Albert Camus | Translated from the French by Justin O'Brien.  

Jaquetón*



¿Quieres joder conmigo?
¿Echamos a pelear las musas?
Van a volar púas.
Por que yo tiro de la baqueta.
No calculo mucho;
but I do mind my surroundings.

¿Quieres joder conmigo?
¿Echamos a pelear las musas?
Van a volar púas.
Mis musas son
Vestales Ninfomaníacas.

¿Quieres joder conmigo?
¿Echamos a pelear las musas?
Tengo a Parvati en speed-dial;
Y tengo la kata tecata.

¿Do you wanna dance?
Me avisas.
Le meto a las pesas
Cognitivas.
____________________________

* “Tiburón semejante al marrajo, que puede alcanzar más de seis metros de longitud, con dientes planos, triangulares y aserrados en sus bordes. Se encuentra en todos los mares, siendo quizá, por su tamaño y su poderosa dentadura, el tiburón más peligroso que se conoce.”RAE

Saturno

Vía CICLOPS.
Un back-lit Saturn,
Con sus anillos de
Detrito.
Lo vi mirando por el retrovisor de Cassini.
Quiero una Triumph;
Le voy a poner Cassini.

Un back-lit Saturn,
Con sus anillos de
Detrito–debris;
Peñones del tamaño de carros.

Un back-lit Saturn,
Con sus anillos de
Detrito;
Forman un LP de vinilo
–Cósmico–.

Un back-lit Saturn,
Con sus anillos de
Detrito;
¿Guardarán secretos?
¿Audio? ¿video? ¿texto?

Un back-lit Saturn,
Con sus anillos de
Detrito;
La luz del Sol los golpea
Como la pintura al canvas,
La tinta a la página,
La proyección a la pantalla.

miércoles, 19 de diciembre de 2012

Crowd Control - a fitting Christmas post.

Frederick Douglass
Se acabaron las clases y encuentro apropiado compartir este texto escrito por Frederick Douglass el 25 de diciembre de 1833. Después de trabajar bajo condiciones inhumanas todo el año, muchos esclavos se dedicaban a joder y a beber en las navidades. Los dueños lo preferían así.
 
My term of actual service to Mr. Edward Covey ended on Christmas Day, 1833. The days between Christmas and New Year’s Day are allowed as holidays, and accordingly we were not required to perform any labor more than to feed and take care of the stock. This time we regarded as our own, by the grace of our masters, and we therefore used or abused it nearly as we pleased. Those of us who had families at a distance were generally allowed to spend the whole six days in their society. This time, however, was spent in various ways. The sober, staid, thinking, and industrious of our number would employ themselves in making corn brooms, mats, horse collars, and baskets; and another class of us would spend the time in hunting opossums, hares, and coons. But by far the larger part engaged in such sports and merriments as ball playing, wrestling, running foot races, fiddling, dancing, and drinking whiskey: and this latter mode of spending the time was by far the most agreeable to the feelings of our masters. A slave who would work during the holidays was considered by our masters as scarcely deserving them. It was deemed a disgrace not to get drunk at Christmas. 

From what I know of the effect of these holidays upon the slave, I believe them to be among the most effective means in the hands of the slaveholder in keeping down the spirit of insurrection. Were the slaveholders at once to abandon this practice, I have not the slightest doubt it would lead to an immediate insurrection among the slaves. These holidays serve as conductors, or safety valves, to carry off the rebellious spirit of enslaved humanity. But for these, the slave would be forced up to the wildest desperation, and woe betide the slaveholder the day he ventures to remove or hinder the operation of those conductors! I warn him that, in such an event, a spirit will go forth in their midst, more to be dreaded than the most appalling earthquake. 


The holidays are part and parcel of the gross fraud, wrong, and inhumanity of slavery. They are professedly a custom established by the benevolence of the slaveholders, but I undertake to say it is the result of selfishness, and one of the grossest frauds committed upon the downtrodden slave. They do not give the slaves this time, because they would not like to have their work during its continuance, but because they know it would be unsafe to deprive them of it. This will be seen by the fact that the slaveholders like to have their slaves spend those days just in such a manner as to make them as glad of their ending as of their beginning. Their object seems to be to disgust their slaves with freedom by plunging them into the lowest depths of dissipation. For instance, the slaveholders not only like to see the slave drink of his own accord but will adopt various plans to make him drunk. One plan is to make bets on their slaves as to who can drink the most whiskey without getting drunk, and in this way they succeed in getting whole multitudes to drink to excess. Thus, when the slave asks for virtuous freedom, the cunning slaveholder, knowing his ignorance, cheats him with a dose of vicious dissipation, artfully labeled with the name of liberty. The most of us used to drink it down, and the result was just what might be supposed—many of us were led to think that there was little to choose between liberty and slavery. We felt, and very properly too, that we had almost as well be slaves to man as to rum. So, when the holidays ended, we staggered up from the filth of our wallowing, took a long breath, and marched to the field—feeling, upon the whole, rather glad to go, from what our master had deceived us into a belief was freedom, back to the arms of slavery.


[h/t] Lapham's Quarterly.

martes, 18 de diciembre de 2012

Mancrush II: Søren Aabye Kierkegaard

Kierkegaard (by Wilhelm Marstrand)
IMPROVISED ADDRESS 
We celebrate, in this hour, the founding of our Society. We rejoice once more at the recurrence of the happy event of the longest day’s passing and the commencement of the victory of night. This long, livelong day we have waited; even a moment ago we were sighing at its length, but now our despair is turned to joy. True, the victory is but trifling and the day will remain in the ascendant yet a while, but the fact that its dominion has been broken does not escape us. So we do not put off our celebrations until the night’s victory can be seen by all, do not wait until the sluggish bourgeois life reminds us that the day is waning. No, as a young bride impatiently awaits nightfall, we longingly await the first onset of night, the first announcement of its coming victory, and the nearer we approach despair at what to do should the days not shorten, the greater our joy and surprise.”* 
*Either/Or, A Fragment of Life | Edited by Victor Eremita; translated by Alastair Hannay.

domingo, 16 de diciembre de 2012

Sandy Hook

Emilie Parker, 6.  (vía The Guardian).
Adam Lanza, de 20 años,
Mató 26 personas;
20 eran niños
—de 6 a 7 años—
Y 6 eran adultos.

La Principal.
La Sicóloga.
4 maestras
—3 de ellas no pasaban de los 30.

80% de los niños tenían 6;
20% de los niños tenían 7.

12 niños; 8 niñas.

Adam también mató a Nancy.

A Nancy Lanza.

miércoles, 5 de diciembre de 2012

Rant

Imagen por Steven Rice Illustration
Anoche, mientras procrastinaba en las redes sociales, me topé con fotos de una campaña bastante cursi: #YoSoyJoséEnrique. Mientras escribo estas palabras, todavía hay personas retratándose con la frase – incluyendo a Ricky Martin – con caras de indignación, con seriedad e intensidad, con miradas que responden a una indignación colectiva que, en pocas horas, se transformó en moralismos hipócritas; en nada se hizo un circo mediático. Hasta la pena de muerte y, por supuesto, Kobbo Santarrosa, cogieron pon con todo este asunto.

No me importa Ana Cacho, ni cualquiera de las encrucijadas de falsa justicia que se quiere adjudicar Santarrosa. No veo su programa, pero janguear en las redes después de las seis de la tarde, cualquier día de la semana, es ver – por osmosis – a la muñeca. En pocas palabras, en el programa se repitió algo que lleva pasando en este anacrónico espacio por más de 10 años: basura, odio; pero la dosis de odio se da con una opinión bastante generalizada, para que baje bien. Por su puesto, el odio se inyecta diluido en xenofobia – en todas sus variantes, en Puerto Rico las tenemos todas; y nadie en Puerto Rico es mejor poster child de la xenofobia que Kobbo Santarrosa.

Con mi páncreas metafórico a punto de estallar con tanta cursilería instagramática, y después de leer varios tuits, que contaban las barbaridades que salían del culo por boca de Kobbo, me indigné. Mi indignación -- que nada tiene que ver con “prostitución”, “Calle Padial”, “homosexual” -- me llevó a decirle a mi esposa que me tomara una foto con un mensaje -- escrito con el mismo marcador que uso, a diario, en una pizarra escolar: