and here we go again

i've learnt that i can live without writing
probably i could live without reading (not so sure)
but, definitely i cant live without music





music is my radar.

dont you have those days when you are absolutely autoreferential?
well, probably i'm getting through this kind of period
but it will stop pretty soon
as soon as i land on earth again
i promise

-why are you so serious?
-because music is a serious stuff

 The useless dawn finds me in a deserted street-
      corner; I have outlived the night.
   Nights are proud waves; darkblue topheavy waves
      laden with all the hues of deep spoil, laden with
      things unlikely and desirable.
   Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals,
      of things half given away, half withheld,
      of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act
      that way, I tell you.
   The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds
      and odd ends: some hated friends to chat
      with, music for dreams, and the smoking of
      bitter ashes.  The things my hungry heart
      has no use for.
   The big wave brought you.
   Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily
      and incessantly beautiful.  We talked and you
      have forgotten the words.
   The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street
      of my city.
   Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to
      make your name, the lilt of your laughter:
      these are the illustrious toys you have left me.
   I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find
      them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and
      to the few stray stars of the dawn.
   Your dark rich life ... 
   I must get at you, somehow; I put away those 
      illustrious toys you have left me, I want your
      hidden look, your real smile -- that lonely,
      mocking smile your cool mirror knows.
   

Jorge Luis Borges

favourite

all the music during all these years
the music in the middle of the night
in a room that stays in darkness, except for the light that comes from a screen

the books
so many books read by two
maybe in the same language or not
probably at the same time, but not in the same space

some poets, dead, surely
some writers, dead, surely too
some musicians, dead and alive
("all the best ones are dead": someone would say)

the love for the bass
there is always a bass in between

some cats,
stray cats of ocurse

that is what we are.
 and nothing else

i lost myself so deeply that i cant even recognize myself when i look at my face in the mirror
how could this happen to me?
oh, how?
oh, so tragic
so, so tragic


ok, i need a vacation
inmediately

just sit and listen to this song

dont't even say a word

we'll be able to speak in a year or two

if we are lucky enough

and if the wind is on our side.

and billy was so right when he said:

"the more you change, the less you feel"

we are in the middle of something

i'm afraid to ask, but i'm almost sure that we are having an affair

have you ever had that weird sensation that a truck is going to crash into you?

... 

and you cant even move yourself to avoid the collision because it is too late to make a move and because you have no idea how the things got to that point, and probably because everything seems to be a very beautiful spectacle, including the truck itself.

well, something like that, but a little different.

not only pretty girls make graves, trucks make them too.

and sometimes the world is completely upside down, 

but it seems so perfect anyway

i've got a crush on Batman
he is perfect
a man with solitude
a scientist
a fighter against the injustice of a city
a darken soul
so tragic.

i really need a t-shirt of batman

inmediately

right now

you say love is real
like a disease
come on, tell me please
i'm not over it
i'm not over it




during days i'have been listening the same song.
probably, just probably, a kinda the song remains the same stuff.

"i've spent six years on your trail
six full years of my life on your trail"




*that weird feeling that you have when you think that a song was written for you
**or probably i was morrissey in my last life

my bass professor sent me a message today.

he said that he was great in his new town, teaching music and literature to people on rehab (Oh, my god, he is teaching to people full of addictions, when he could be here, teaching me... ME, the heir of Paul Mccartney)...

well, he also said that he was happy because his new place was so quiet and nice, and blah blah blah blah...

what does it mean? It means that he never, but never, but never in a million years will come back to Buenos Aires. Ok, probably i'm overreacting, but not too much, so i'll never have my bass lessons again.

There is no doubt at all that we hate it when our friends become sucessful... 

yeap, my dear, Morrissey is right as usual. 

he did it again.

playing and singing


*safe and sound

when you dedicate a song to someone -and i'm not talking about writing the lyrics and not even playing it-  i mean, when you just say: "hey, this song reminded me of you" or "i wanted to make you listen this song" or something like that; pay attention to this:

Nothing can have less loyalty than the fact that you dedicate the same song to two different lovers. 

I mean, you choose a song for someone in particular, for any peculiar thing that generates a connection between you and the other one, so just as the new lover cant take the place of the former, cant be the heir of that song either.

In other words, from my point of view, the best thing it would be to pick up new songs for the new relationships. 

it is not so difficult, the world is full of music.

because i'm pretty sure that there must be a circle in the hell for the lazy lovers and if there isnt one, they truly deserve it. I hope that Satan makes justice in a case like this.

really.

nothing much to say, i guess

there are so many but so many things that i would ask tonight...
but maybe or probably it is better not to do it








so i'll come back to my carnival and forget about yoEVERYTHING :0)

tell me, do you regret the most for the things that you've done and went wrong or for all that you didnt dare to do?

oscar wilde wondered: who being loved is poor?

and i answer: probably someone who is loved for the wrong person. someone who is loved for the one who is not wanted to be the lover.

As morrissey said: "i want the one i cant have, and it's driving me mad"

as it is usual we see that the smiths and morrissey give us the answers to everything

it is ok, haruki

now you are gone
it's just
your love is like a drug

the weirdest part is that i have seen that movie so many times and i never knew that it was a QOSA's song.

btw: everybody loves that scene for Salma Hayek

i celebrate this first night of the new year and while i drink wine (ok, i 'm not drinking right now) i think about all the writers who drank alcohol and about that union, very good indeed, between alcohol and literature.

and i find out that even when drinking wine can make you feel untied or whatever, there is impossible to reach that state of illuminati... and it is impossible to feel so untied to make such deep confessions.

i truly believe that you are a genious or not, and it has not connection with the wine you drink

and i also believe that i cant write what i really feel about many things, even in this state... or probably because i havent drunk enough.

anyway, happy new year

and i tie my fingers for not go on writing a couple of truths that you deserve to read

good night

and we dont know
just where our bones will rest
to dust, i guess

i started something
and i forced you to a zone
and you were clearly
never meant to go
hair brushed and parted
typical me, typical me
typical me
i started something
and now i'm not too sure




what the hell does this lyric mean, stephen?

and i had seen myself probably two or three times in my arriving at that airport
and i had imagined how things were going to be
i had pictured in my mind a couple of situations that could happen in that context.
but of course, nothing of that took place.
as Bolaño and Porta say: "ideal scenes hurt".

tender is the day
when demons go away

yeap, me too

for the way i feel about you
paradise not lost it's in you

tell me how it is that you can sleep in the night
without thinking you lost everything that was good in your life
to the toss of the dice?

and it never really began, but in my heart it was so real

and i suspect that lev and sophie are tolstoi and his wife.

and yes, of course, take me wherever you want

the last saturday i went to eat to a japanese restaurante
i took a tempura of vegetables
and for dessert i had a ginger and  green tea ice cream.
it was delicious.
lets say that it was so toru watanabe







btw.1: ginger ice cream was made by God
btw.2: i could never love a man who doesnt like the smiths

i'm moving like a train into some foreing land
i aint got ticket for this ride
but i will

this picture in my pocket

looks like you

it's the rest of my life

just rolling rolling rolling

we re all

the spring has come here.
well, not exactly
in fact its is cold and it is raining right now.
and i have discovered that i only like the rain during the warm days
but not anymore in the cold ones.
apparently i'm like the spring
that always seems to be the same
but every year is different

i have been thinking that in all the situations -in music and literature- when one of the lovers invites to the other to die together, the one who brings the idea to the couple is always the desperate one.

Probably, the one who is suffering the more, believes that the death can bring some peace to the end.

probably it would be time to start a blog about Murakami




(and about Bolaño, too, for sure)

Again she turned to gaze at me. "Hajime", she said after a while."When i look at you driving, sometimes i want to grab the steering wheel and give it a yank. it would kill us, wouldn't it?"

"we'd die, for sure. we're going at eighty miles an hour"

"you'd rather not die with me?"

"i can think of more pleasent ways to go". i laughed. "and besides, we havent listened to the record yet. that's the reason we are here, isn't it?"

"dont worry", she said. "i wont do anything like that. the thought just crosses my mind from time to time."

doesnt it remind you anything?

names

Arturo Belano is the name of one of the characters of Roberto Bolaño.

In fact, Arturo Belano is himself.

He chose the name Arturo because his favourite french poet was Arthur Rimbaud.

but tonight you belong to me

every time that i listen: "we could be so happy, baby (if we wanted to)",

the phrase that comes to my mind is:

"we were so close to be everything

and we finished being nothing"

and when you start thinking that the only problem that you had were the teeth,

then you find out that you already had a problem with the ears

a bridge of kisses over the abyss of memory

i have always thought that there is something wrong when i look at a picture.

the portrait of someone, i mean.

i just couldnt guess what it was, but now i think that i finally found what it is.

when you look that kind of pictures, you use to believe that the one who is caught in the picture is looking at you.

for a moment you feel that you are the receptionist of the picture.

you are part of a relationship between two people: the one in the photograph and you.

but what you forget, or dont know, or dont want or cant see is that there is someone in the middle of you two.

the one that took the picture, the real one to whom the eyes of the person inside the picture are really directed to.

btw: i like one of your pictures.

the one where you are frowning 

love never brings something good. love always brings something better

roberto bolaño, i have a crush on you

and you can shoot me
and you can throw me off a train
....






sure, sure... he is always so tragic

you are... and you are...

look at me that way

-... would you take off your clothes and let me see your body?
- you want just me to take off my clothes?
- yes. first you take all your clothes off. i want to look at your body. you don't want to?
- i dont mind. if you want me to, i said.

south of the border, west of the sun, haruki murakami

maybe it is not a good idea that an only child falls in love with another only child.

but things happen

between all the strange relationships that i establish with writers, there is one a little peculiar between cortázar and me.

every time that i have given one of his books to a boy, as a gift, the things didnt work out as i expected.

and i'm absolutely sure that i'm not the reason of that failure, because -as everybody knows- i'm nice and adorable and very smart and even funny.

maybe it is because they dont like cortázar or because they dont understand his writing.

i have started to think that they didnt even read the book that i gave to them.

definitely, it is all cortazar's fault. 

 

..

.

my only mistake is i keep hoping

Stone is not stone

There was a time when stone was stone 

And a face on the street was a finished face. 

Between the Thing, myself and God alone 

There was an instant symmetry. 

Since you have altered all my world this trinity is twisted: 

Stone is not stone 

And faces like the fractioned characters in dreams are incomplete 

Until in the child's inchoate face 

I recognize your exiled eyes. 

The soldier climbs the glaring stair leaving your shadow. 

Tonight, this torn room sleeps 

Beneath the starlight bent by you.

Carson Mccullers

what i really want is not to want so much

not to want impossible things, 

that probably are the only ones that deserve to be wanted

and one day i started to miss
we all knew that this was going to happen someday*




*i know it's gonna happen someday (by Morrissey)

need to see you at least one more time
come here in july
please

you have sth that belongs to me

just give me what is mine and nobody gets hurt

i am in love
and it is not friday

i dont like guys who smoke
and i'll go to hell because i'm a lier
\o/

i protect this place with the strength that i protect myself from the cold outside

hard to believe that they played this :0)

tonight, it will be absolutely impossible not to think about,
when they play a forest

love is natural and real

but not for you, my love

not tonight, my love

love is natural and real

but not for you and i, my love

why?

there are so many things that i want to say here, specially in spanish because they sound better...

but i have no people who may understand them and besides, it would  be too risky.

oh, by the way:  it is better not to write a word if you have drunk wine

:0)

i'll remember it, just in case

i don't need to know

know where you are

only that you are

safe in this world

let's celebrate your birthday. that's all i want to do

altough i'm clearly a dog

there is always a cat in between

and tell me, how much do you look alike david?

you, so paris

and me, so berlin

"the popular, and heavily romanticised, interpretation of this closeness is that "There is a light that never goes out" is a love song to johnny marr, who regularly ferried the singer around by car. 

asked in 2005 if this was the case, Morrissey stated: "It wasnt and it isnt".

"i never spent much time thinking about that stuff", adds Marr. "it was only after the band split that these theories came out. only Morrissey knows. when we recorded it i wasnt there thinking, "aw, this is about me", or anything. if it is, great. if it's not, then it's still a great song. i'm sure there's worse songs written about me so  it might as well be a good one. but, for the record, i wasnt the only person who used to drive Morrissey around by car, put it that way".

Mozipedia, the encyclopedia of Morrissey and The Smiths, Simon Goddard

to get something that you never got,

you have to do something that you never did

"but if nostalgia means the powerful recollection of strong emotions -and a regret that such feelings are no longer present in our lives- then i plead guilty. .. and if we're talking about strong feelings that will never come again, i suppose it's possible to be nostalgic about remembered pain as well as remembered pleasure. and that opens up the field, doesn't it?..."

the sense of an ending, Julian Barnes

flying people

giving my life to a rainbow like you

there was nothing in the world 

that i ever wanted more

than to feel you deep in y heart

there was nothing in the world

that i ever wanted more

than to never feel the breaking apart

if you could ask me anything tonight, what would it be?

http://www.vam.ac.uk/content/exhibitions/david-bowie-is




i wanna go

...

pushing my face in the memory of you again

but i never know if it's real

never know how i wanted to feel

never quite said what i wanted to say to you

never quite managed the words to explain to you

never quite knew how to make them believable

and now the time has gone

another time undone

...

just for the only fact of knowing that his last video is about berlin, shows to me that i was right when i chose that city.

ok, let's talk about perfection

if you want, for sure

thanks god or the destiny or whatever because some people dont use whasapp or line or viber or skype and because you dont have their telephone number, when you are a little dizzy for the toasts with  good wine, and so you cant call them just for saying that couple of things that you were hiding even from yourself

:0)


anyway ... happy new year
just happy because the secrets are safe  because bigmouth didnt strike this  time 

i used to write a lot here.

all of that is so far away

it seems absolutely impossible to write nowadays

probably i'll never do it again

as borges used to say: i feel prouder of my readings than of my writings 

"phillip tourian is seventeen years old, half turkish and half american. he has a choice of several names but prefers tourian. his father goes under the name of rogers. curly black hair falls over  his forehead , his skin is very pale, and he has green eyes."

"and the hippos were boiled in their tanks", jack kerouac and william  burroughs 

this is the end of the world as we know it

you choose...

i find that  i have to put myself in those situations to produce any reasonable good writing. i've still got that same thing about when i get to a country or a situation and i have to put myself on a dangerous level, whether emotionally or mentally or physically, and it resolves in things like that: living in Berlin leading what is quite a spartan life for a person of my means, and in forcing myself to live according to the restrictions of that city.

why dont you come over here, we´ve got a city to love

she only said the words again and it started to rain (rain rain rain)

Amy: "... Leonard, a word of advice, moody self-obsession is only attractive in men who can play guitar and are considerably taller than you."

.

being there

Preamble To The Instructions On How To Wind a Watch        


Think of this: when they present you with a watch, they are gifting 
you with a tiny flowering hell, a wreath of roses, a dungeon of air. 
They aren't simply wishing the watch on you, and many more, and we 
hope it will last you, it's a good grand, Swiss, seventeen rubies; they aren't just giving you this minute stonecutter which will bind you by the wrist 
and walk along with you. They are giving you - they don't know it, it's 
terrible that they don't know it - they are gifting you with a new fragile 
and precarious piece of yourself, something that's yours but not a part of 
your body, that you have to strap to your body like your belt, like a tiny, furious bit of something hanging onto your wrist. They gift you with the 
job of having to wind it every day, an obligation to wind it, so that it goes 
on being a watch, they gift you with the obsession of looking into jewelry-shop windows to check the exact time, check the radio announcer, check the telephone service. They give you the gift of fear, someone will 
steal it from you, it'll fall on the street and get broken. They give you the 
gift of your trademark and the assurance that it's a trademark better than others, they gift you with the impulse to compare your watch with other watches. They aren't giving you a watch, you are the gift, they are 
giving you yourself for the watch's birthday. 




julio cortázar
 

the hunger

bite me, david bowie

i guess you know i never wanted anyone else more than you

-never have been in love, to speak of. i was in love once, maybe and it was an awful experience. it rotted me, drained me, and it was a disease. being in love is something that breeds brute anger and jealousy, everything but love, it seems.

"when you write the biography of  a friend,

you must do it as if you were taking revenge for him"

flaubert, letter to ernest feydeau, 1872

In the beginning, when we were winning

I was your ever-present love-sick fool

sorry, mr. lennon, but happiness is not a warm gun

happiness is twitter (?)

when i grow up,

 i just wanna be tina turner