Caracas Diary Of A Diner That He Was Bored

Friday, December 31, 2010

Congratulations Sayings Engagement

Another year

Just today I decided to write, I feel that no one is waiting and that gives me some peace. I'm a little rusty, but what can be done. I feel this year was a big disappointment. I was a big disappointment to myself, unmotivated and useless.

I have twenty years, a lot of dreams and this stagnant and mediocre. I'm exactly half of the school. When I started from the beginning I said that was because I really wanted to learn, but it is more difficult than I thought. Toto, it looks like we're not in the CCH. This semester I took five courses of sciences (my worst nightmare). I failed three and most of my teachers are literally disturbed disoriented and in some cases outright sadists who do not teach anything.

Everybody tells me that third and fourth semester is the most bastard, I can. But I can not panic, and when that happens my defense mechanism is to abort the mission, put the autopilot and send everything to hell. I know that is worse, but it is almost impossible to avoid. I miss

Milks. According to him going back to school, but almost never see. Now that I have friends in the room distracted me more than ever. I have fear.

I stopped writing in part out of laziness, partly because of depression, but mostly by paranoia. I feel that I become vulnerable publicly confessed, which is ironic, because I also think it is the only way to tell the truth as it is. Maybe it means that truth is dangerous, not only in itself, but also for who says it.

Anyway, I have lots of pictures I want to share, I have things I want to make his trial, but the fact that a malicious anonymous knows me too I find disturbing.

regret the disaster that is my blog, but if I take comfort in the misfortune of others, know that this is a direct reflection of my life. Do not want to waste and everything I am, but it's hard when you're your own worst enemy. I'm seriously considering

a restructuring of this blog and most importantly, it changes by Tumblr blogger. What do you think?

restructure And what I mean letting go the reins and post what it is and how it feels, I dunno, let the momentum take the reins. There are more who have not seen me and probably a good way to more safely share my ideas.

I hope your year was better than mine, I heartily thank the time they devoted to this reading and good, see you soon.

While I'm pondering my future, my present and my past. I have to get out of here.

Friday, October 29, 2010

Rotary Razor Versus Foil

Prats dolphin released in Mexico

C Elebrás the appearance in Monterrey, Mexico, a selection of poems by the Cuban writer Dolphin Prats. Exile transient, as it is called the volume has been published by the label Mantis Editores this year and must be present these days in Holguin, Cuba City resides Prats.
Selection and preface also run by the Mexican poet Luis Aguilar, who has accurately noted:
"Pursued in a time and always marginalized, Dolphin has constructed a temporary exile: the time is the theme of writing. Then comes not only the country, but himself, because his amasiato the word has no boundaries, reasons, determinism, sex or ideology. It is true to himself, and poetry honesty will result set in splendor enough to make any chaos.
"While at the same time fresh and nourished by the best literary tradition, the work of our poet is, however, little known outside their country. The reason perhaps lies so dark in the rigidity of the academy, the fearful obedience or envy pure and simple. And despite this, the poet clings to this land with the loyalty of the defeated cancer, but does not even write from there, as interpreted by other exiles and their own malquerientes. Write from the vertical transparent poetry. Nothing more is needed. "
Dolphin I've written before in this blog. You can read here .

Friday, October 22, 2010

Homely Heriones Meens Boobs

Today

Journal of Cuba, Madrid:

Baquero's house

n U English novelist has had visit the mental hospital where he spent his days Herisau Swiss writer Robert Walser. In an effort speculative (Walser believes that he faked his insanity to withdraw from the world, ie the missing self-imposed), it meets the current chief doctor asylum, but it shows the reports that corroborate the Swiss author's mental disorder.
Under the snow, the Iberian tour continues and goes to the cemetery where the tomb of Walser. Take a few pictures. And memorable places has come before the European literary history: the Odeon Café, where they were James Joyce and Francis Picabia, and where ever danced Mata Hari, the Cabaret Voltaire, the starting point of the Dada movement and later the surrealists cave. Voltaire
close, had his home a famous Russian political activist, after ascending the regicide charge rail kepi the speed category of attire, from whom he reportedly played a game of chess with Tristan Tzara in Zurich same street now covered by the English novelist.
Someone says the vicissitudes of the Cabaret Voltaire over the last two centuries: greasy restaurant in the twenties, room decorated like a country house in the thirties, a nightclub of ill repute in the seventies, gay bar in the eighties, acquired in 2002 by a Swiss bank and then occupied by youth self-titled neodadaist graffiti that filled the walls.
At the end of your trip, we round the idea of \u200b\u200bdisappearance, understood as the possibility of collapse in world common.

Weeds and debris
At some point in their life journey, the Cuban writer, that being constantly punctured by the need to take sides, you should ask from which handles will rebuild its past, that is, propose a "non-disappearing", perhaps deciphered this as a reunion with himself and cancellation of the inability to move forward.
At the country level, we know, Cuba has tested the topic of the prison which caught the attention of Michel Foucault, the place in which "power is not hidden, not masked, shown as tyranny led to the smallest details. " However, what will happen to those writers who have been missing by an expressed desire for power? How to begin to recover, beyond the partial or symbolic, that piece of memory loss that reveals the work of an author denied?
A young journalist travels to Cuba Gibara on the trail of Guillermo Cabrera Infante. Discover that hardly anyone left who knows who he is. What remains of the old family house is a clumsy tackle on walls covered with cement blocks, which have added doors, windows and a roof in any way possible. Someone lives there today, but we will not stop asking.
time later, another young journalist moved to Banes, now in order to find out what was left of the house Gaston Baquero in town. And all is ruin your lens collects and weeds, walls that are shaken, they bid to stay upright, a yerbazal unpunished. Does not even have complete certainty that the house is searched, the former home of the poet's family. And as if the lyrics of a bolero old they were, who to ask if anyone can answer.
The natural state of a system like Cuba is destruction. His locus is the moor. The man in the street as well as understand and digest. Then ask you not to cooperate with the memory of a moment that has stayed behind. It has no known Cuban writer why other than the man in the street. Neither has memory to worship, not have their Cabaret Voltaire, even the photo of walking through a meadow Baquero anyone. No such thing as William Blake, quoted by George Steiner in The Idea of \u200b\u200bEurope has called "the sacredness of the smallest detail." What you have before you is that history has behaved like a fool.
What we in no way should seem trivial is the use we make of these spaces stolen from the memory of a nation, those sites that have been a reminder of the destructive capacity of the individual vested with power and ideological assumptions of a process manager, such that willingly and without tremor of panic had demolished the Capitol with the sole aim of assumptions underpinning.
In now's Cuba may be possible to aspire to put a kiosk with snacks and beaten on the porch of the ramshackle house, and since this will be a test to the edge of what we already know, the complete failure of this aberration called Revolution fifty year , but to try to reconstruct, from such debris, the handles of a besieged memory take us too many decades and perhaps fix it for the final effort in futility.

Photo: Ruins of the house of the poet Gastón Baquero in Banes. Daniel Alejandro taken in Facebook.