science, oppenheimer, poetry

(no subject)

good things about madrid:

1 its got the Best Park in The World, the Retiro, and I live 100 meters away from it (300 feet?dont know why i still talk american after all that happened...) (its got a chrystal palace)
And when you ride into it at 6 in the morning and the winter fog has come down it looks like a fairy tale


2 its so easy to get laid, its kind of hard not to get laid

3 I am making real money here for the first time ever, and i get to pay other people's beers, sandwiches and others

4 there's always tons of people in the street, just chilling, drinking, eating, having fun

5 even tho its not really supposed to be a bike friendly place, its tons of fun to ride in, and the car drivers are never mean

5 amazing ancient art everywhere

6 amazing comic book and record stores too

7Anytime at night, anywhere, theres a chinese person holding a can of beer in the sewer for you

8 Most cosmopolitan city ever inspite being the most provintial. Beats NY any time.


bad things about madrid


1. No sea. Makes me crave Tenerife and south east asia at the same time, really intensely. Sweat. Smell of fish. Motion sicknes. Hmmmmm....

2 the wanton sex thing gets old quick. Everyone is so wised up about it, its almost a joke. Feels like a silent movie romance all the time, all sped up and meaningless.

3. you are not here, tho you said you were coming

4. thats it really, but the bad things are kind of strong.
science, oppenheimer, poetry

(no subject)

while in barcelona i had the inmense luck of catching an old friend of mine doing a guided tour of the John Cage exhibition at the contemporary art museum there. He usually does it as part of MACBA's program of activities for children, so he did it in a very entertaining way as we were the first group of adults exposed to him.
And it was lucky that it was so, for what could be more inappropiate for someone like John Cage than a guide who used the usual contemporary art bluff talk to expand his works into some shapeless infinity?Of all the very complex and advanced artists in the past century, he is one that cannot be expressed beyond terms a child can grasp, for good and for ill.
While in the shabby non-art school i went to I had a big trouble putting together in my mind his work and that of Duchamp with the complex terminology that they were introduced with.
Cage is known for making a 1950's audience listen to an orchestra playing a score which consisted of 4 minutes and 33 seconds of silence and changed music forever. Duchamp exhibited a toilet in an art gallery in 1917 and changed art forever. That was the official line, only with less words. My obtuse and provintial 18 year old head had an enormous trouble getting around that idea. I guess the thing that most troubled me was what about the rest of those two guys' work?what did they do the rest of their life, after changing art and music forever?did they retire off the royalties and went hunting giraffes with Dali in the south pole?what was in their head that was so brilliant,and can I have a piece of it so I can change something forever too?I wouldn't have minded something humbler, like being the guy who changed origami forever by making a crumpled paper ball during the World Origami Olympics.
But in this tour of his work I got it, and I might have grasped part of the mistery that always eluded me about contemporary art. I realized that those two iconic acts from duchamp and cage were so much bigger than themselves as artists, that they had rendered their work almost invisible as a result. They almost seem like the doodlings that the idea itself would make if it was a person, and had to fill its days doing whatever until death made it inmortal. Its not like their work is worthless - what it was is as unpretentious as can be. Oh, wait, im getting it now, as Im typing. Fuck, was I ever obtuse!I was fooled by the epic proportions those acts had taken. Ive been fooled all along and I see it now, in the middle of making my point. What I didnt see was the same that the others didn't see, and the reason that those 2 deeply innocent acts became a scandal in the first place. Fuck, I dont know how to resolve this situation now Im just gonna have to post this as it is to show my foolishness.
science, oppenheimer, poetry

madrid, barcelona

I think the 10 year old boy I live with is deeply confused by me, and is confusing me just as much in return. Today his little sister told me he wanted to let his hair grow long like mine, and even though it's really hard to read his feelings i sensed him blushing while staring at GTA Vice City Stories. I don't mean that he has any kind of romantic inclination towards me, well I hope at least. He is of the aspiring badass type of kid, all tough and macho, quiet, frowning and not letting anyone touch him. He's showed admiration at my drawing abilities, and my ease with technological matters. Once he asked me to draw him, after i drew his sister. He liked it, but then he grabbed the eraser to change his mouth - I asked him instead to pose so I could draw it for him and he made this angry face showing his teeth. grr.
He also likes the big chain with a lock i wear in my neck whenever I ride my bike (his mother's bike actually). But I probably give him just as many reasons to think of me as a weirdo, queer, uncool old guy, as one day i wear a leather jacket and cool shades and the next Im wearing a stuffy old mans jacket and getting all aroused to debussy and saying "oh in my time i was the worst skateboarder I couldnt do a thing!". And more than ever before in my life Ive absolutely no desire to resolve those ambiguities to have, as I've proven unable of doing it time after time. There's way too many contradicting things I want to project to the world outside and trying to control it is bloody useless.
He also made his mum buy him the yoghourts I eat, which are the cheap brand from the cheap supermarket Dia, instead of the fancy ones he usually eats. Im still puzzled by that one myself.
I wonder if he likes me so much why won't he let me teach him how to draw!!!! I hope it will happen in the week i get to babysit them both this month
science, oppenheimer, poetry

(no subject)

Then at lunch all the girls told horror stories. About Sol's sister getting beat up by her ex-boyfriend, then probably losing the trial this week and tons of money she can't afford because he is the son of a politician. About Sol herself covering her face with every imaginable accessory every time she took the train in Berlin, to avoid her psychopath exboyfriend who took her as the reincarnation of her sister whom she saw die.About Nuria's dad getting diagnosed alzheimers this week and not recognizing her and on another occasion jumping on a swimming pool with his clothes on for imaginary reasons,for thinking someone was drowning who actually wasn't, then being embarrased and wet as his wife picked him up. How he had a life of adventure, sailing and boozing and grabbing his wife's bum and now he's paying for it with every imaginable pain of old age. Then about shoes and boys, and laughter again. Girls are never afraid to talk about the darkest things, and they can then flip the page. Im still there in that swimming pool. Girl talk is scary.
science, oppenheimer, poetry

(no subject)



"Pobre paquita" fue el comentario de la madre de Patri, que nos acompañó a pedirle fotos y autógrafos a la salida del concierto, al verla ser recogida por un taxi, en vez de una limusina o al menos un coche con el organizador a bordo como otros artistas de más renombre que van al cuerno de Calatrava. "me da pena y todo". No me extraña por otra parte que una mujer como la madre de Patri, con esa belleza a su edad que supera la de su hija, y con ese cochazo conducido por un marido servicial que quita el tenis de la radio sin rechistar, tenga motivos para compadecerse de quien le de la gana. Yo vi a una mujer trabajadora, muy dulce y humilde, a la que le costaba esfuerzo sacar a relucir esa bilis arrolladora que fue origen y éxito de su carrera, y de tanta dulzura y tanta fragilidad que mostró nos aburrimos todos un poquito creo yo. Todas las mujeres del auditorio aplaudían educadamente y disimulaban su tedio durante un bolero sentimental esperando como en una plaza de toros a que Paquita sacara la espada y le rebanara de nuevo los huevos a ese hombre imaginario que invocaba, de reducidas dotes amatorias pero grandes alardes de casanova, de hipnóticas artes de seducción pero nulas artes de cariño. El despecho femenino es cosa temible y poderosa, pero construido de las astillas de algo muy fragil, e imagino que cuanto más genuino sea más dificil a su vez será recrearlo con fidelidad 40 veces seguidas en un espacio de 2 horas y media, delante de unos cientos de personas que transmiten más cariño que otra cosa. Debe ser como intentar recrear la primera vez que te quitaron el biberón cuando ya tienes unos cuantos de distancia con esa experiencia.
science, oppenheimer, poetry

(no subject)

I recently feel like i have to write. It happened at a very specific moment - I was with E., and in one of the rare moments when we are not fucking like brainless beasts, in a long second of quietness when she was sitting on me in the front seat of her car, in a dark road in the rich neighborhoods where all her friends live, and I felt like I had to vindicate our strong body connection as something more than plain sexual attracion, her words, as if that didn't suffice somehow, but I couldn't really formulate the words,not even to myself that would have defended the strength and legitimacy of our meaty meaty union that she seemed so willing to deny. It wasn't the first or the last time that this situation came to happen, but on that occassion I said something so awkward and embarrasing that Im not even going to reproduce it here, in this semi anonymous journal. And there I resolved to develop brutal honesty, and hoped that through it i would be able to ocassionally caress some poetic realities.
I dont think Im very brilliant. I have a strong, obsessive desire for greatness but my spirit is actually quite modest. I envy women and the way they get lost in passion - can life be at all beautyful when lived with the unavoidable calculatedness and distance that we the male species have built in as default?
but when i let my mind wander like this its like being lost in fog...maybe i will get around it better in spanish?maybe?Aquella chica vietnamita que escribe tan bien Its as if i can sometimes imagine the great arches and pointy roofs pointing at the sky of my thoughts but when i put my feet in it everything disappears like one of those things that disappear and become rotten the second you grab them, i cant remember what they are called. Clouds. No those just disappear. And I look at everything thats left behind and its ugly, ugly, ugly. So maybe I prefer to be like a blind man who imagines color but never sees it. Maybe I prefer to imagine the multiple, grandiose forms of my hypothetical greatness than to try and realize it, and see the ugly mess thats left behind. Im obsessed with greatness, since when does this happen?
I dont want it to be just another cool romance. Like, hey, see you at the party next week, cool. The intercourse is of course a few hundred meters higher category of course. but theres always something maimed. A breath of fire that's being held back safely by a thermal resistant lid. Something without a leg that doesnt stand. It is frustrating. Is she doing this?or is it me? Before, it felt like walking on a rope, i had an image to keep which wasnt real. Now i see i dont fall even if i dance around the rope a little bit. that tension is gone but something there's still something more that i want this thing to do that it doesnt do. Maybe if there was a big looming danger we could be like Humphrey and Ingrid. Thats what I want really. I dont mind the tragic ending.
my mum never shuts up. and always says the same things. I want to get closer to her. But there is no way. She just says the same things, over and over. I cant get around it.
Instead of erasing all that crap and starting over Im just going to go on. And make it all public, yeah. Napoleon the third, what a fat loser. Much better to be Ziggy Stardust, and rule over a million shiny freaks. I dont think Im good with words, or with masses of people for that matter. Maybe it's about time i forget about my desires of grandeur and learn to do what i do best, which is to be quiet, and do quiet things, without anybody paying any attention. And look at the people who make the big statements, and be paralized in awe. Stendhal vs. Proust vs Lola Flores.