In Betweening

Dear blog (it's like bog but with a beautiful extra "l", in the mid-el),

This past week has been hell (rhymes and all). Fucking October, you're always pulling on my existential braids mercilessly.
Time for mental mirrors and birdlike reflections: My remaining granddad passed away, literally away... far from here. It's as if someone invisible just suddenly removed the carpet from under my tiny incoherent feet only to be left there, as pathetic as can be: floating around in a void of hermetically aimless psychological spaces.

                                      (Yeah, classes are so boring I'm doodling like a boss)

First came the unexpected birthday crisis regarding my body's senescent condition, revealed, and now this. Death is pounding at the door, this time of year, anyways.
My thoughts are spinning like delirious flies around the subject of life's finite nature overall. But also and most importantly, I've been pondering over the human need for exercising compassion in general (while life lasts) and specifically as a way to achieve forgiveness, before the end.
Then again it's the in betweens that are sometimes hard to swallow: the liminal spaces. In this particular one I happen to have been hurt by misleading attitudes and under-grounded narratives dealing with colleagues of mine. Phew, Santiago sometimes sends you a personal black cloud to look over you, literally and in the most negative of ways.
I guess it's a matter of realizing that every person is only looking to satisfy her/his own needs and purposes, sometimes regardless of who they're stepping on along the way. The complexity of social interactions as a whole is a mind-fucking trip... talk about psychedelic experiences! In the end I guess we always tend to assume that others are Machiavellically plotting to make your life living Hades. But, the mission here lies in the fact that it's every person's responsibility to look at each situation with the eyes of a fluorescent spider (oh, so many, and so creepy, eww); and from every angle that's attainable. Oh Kant, what the fuck was your maxim? categorical imperativeness: "Do not impose on others what you do not wish for yourself" or in a cheaper and more self-help kind of way: "Treat others how you wish to be treated". Oooooor if you want to go extra mustachy nerdy: "Act only in accordance with that maxim through which you can at the same time will that it become a universal law". Whatever, dude, nobody's listening. Besides, determinism sucks.

Will Eisner said that life and art have a similar condition in the sense that they both rely so much on an acute use of perspective. I always remember my painting workshops, where the pretentious teachers lectured us on how we're supposed to look at our canvases from the different positions our bodies could manage to take, within the available space. One must pull away in order to see the whole picture... Atferwards one must once again plunge into the contents of her/his creation, with a brush in one hand and a joint in the other. It's a never ending fight against one's own demons, Sisyphus. Sissy pussy. The more you get used to facing the taste of your liquid madness, your horror, the more emphatically autonomous you'll become. Since you'll be fearing less and less that which becomes more and more familiar to you, pathos-wise. For real, y'all, it's THE infallible recipe.

We do not own each other, oh, but how do we desire one another from time to time! Mundus masters sometimes turn into a real-bizarre sort of Televisa soap opera/reality show, where everyone speaks with a funky Spanish accent (myself included).

But anyways, I just wanted to invite you all to look beyond your obvious/apparent impulses. BE SILENT, BE STILL. As a drawing exercise, for life, I want to observe more closely at the people I'm hanging out with... I'm finding out nothing is what it seems, and I love it!
We are all oh so fragile and imperfect... I want to learn how to expand my understanding of the other person, I'll try that this week. Instead of reacting like a constipated bureaucrat I shall breathe and buy the fucker who's grinding my gears some un-poisoned doughnuts. The fancy kinds.
Will we ever be able to completely empathize with someone else? Since we'll never be that person, we can only be ourselves. But don't you worry, gramps, like I promised you; I shan't stop making an effort to become kinder and kinder, therein lies the real challenge, like you well taught me.


Anyways, stop fucking around (literally). I'll write more about Santiago this week.
 :)
Stay clean! (conscience wise)

Santiaguirri

So yesterday I ninja bombed-my way out of my own birthday party. Am I a dramatic nutcase? Yes. I have to admit, this was an entirely different event compared to that other crazy Scottish celebration that happened exactly a year ago.

27. The number pushes the texture of whatever's under my skin towards an effervescent edge, to the point that it's starting to tickle the hinges of my personality: this is something I've never felt before. I'm like an old teenager learning to breathe by snorting lines of blueish steam.

This is my second semester in Santiago de Compostela, but I shall write about the first one first, "second things third". Yesterday one of the newbies (yes, there are freshers now since/hence we have become the older generation) told me that my blog helped her cope with the anxiety of not knowing what to expect from this masters course. Therefore I'm writing a bit more, since at least someone's reading. Anyways.

My first impression of Santiago was lucidly dreamy. The wetness... Everywhere you look there's green, and blue, and yellow, and gray in all sorts of organic brush strokes that build up the tactile/visual character of this charming medieval-ish labyrinth. It rains so much you start to feel as if you're growing scales, or squamous flakes. Adaptation. Evolution. This is the mise en scene, a psychological madly-driven Antlantis whose streets are packed with (extremely) slow and irritable old people.

After a rather nerve-driven flight, (I almost didn't get my Spanish student visa, fuck bureaucracy everywhere) I arrived at Carmen's humble abode, where I was to stay until I found a place of my own. The "piso" was, and is just ad hoc: her personal empire of a doll's house, where her coloured pencils live in symbiotic harmony along with various postcards and other echoing remains of her (very) disordered European journeys. We both hang around to chat and draw around the city. And we always end up arguing about everything that we do, since we do it in opposite directions of thought. Yet we always meet in the middle, where we create enough arguable space for tea, and differing peace.

Some of the gals that had studied here during the previous semester lingered in town long enough for us to meet and learn from their experiences. We squeezed as much info out from them as we could, before entering the madness of the Galician Academia at USC... geezness, we had heard so many things already that had alerted our survival skills.
Our first nights out were quite subnormal (what isn't in this nomadic chronotope of a masters degree) yet we enjoyed the weirdness that each moment brought to the table. For example: one time my Thai and my Chinese friend were kind enough to accompany me to the Botafumeiro ceremony. So we entered the illustrious cathedral only to be greeted in smokey-funky English by the hosts: "Güelcom!" the robed figures muttered kindly, to what my companions reacted with expressions such as: "This is so exotic!"

*CATHOLICISM. IT'S EXOTIC*

Yeah. So there were three girls from the Saint Andrews gang that were also coming to study here in Santiago, all of whom were fantastic. Together we roamed through town, becoming familiar with our new surroundings, and trying out the gorgeous little coffee shops that dappled the whole of the historic cask. After some days we found out that other three gals from Sheffield (2) and Bergamo (1) had arrived to town to study here as well, so we decided to have a little meet-and-greet reunion in order to experience our existences in the flesh.
Our first dinner together was memorable: the (then) unknown lasses had, so amicably, fixed some yummy tapas for us to munch on while exchanging information about our first semester mishaps, and to test our overall compatibility, taste-wise. We are so similar and nerdy... it's disgustingly comfortable talking to any of these wonderful human beings :)

Anyways, my first impression of the three of them is worth writing about: I entered the fancy fucking apartment wearing my Japanese fisherman's trousers (they're orange and have a million pockets, very un-girly) with my usual disheveled hairstyle (slacker look Xal), dirty sneakers, and a regular tee. The hostesses, on the other hand, looked as if they were carved out from a magazine. Boy, were they intimidatingly pretty, the malditas lisiadas. However, as we got to talking a little I slowly realised these people were not the usual poshy-stuck up kind of girls, the ones who think they can own the world with their looks. Quite the opposite! We ended up engaging in diverse and fluidly interesting conversations that covered the topics I most enjoy discussing about. APPROVED. My heart had spoken. And I was truly surprised, for the good.

Day after day our interactions became more frequent as we kept sharing the good stuff until we finally decided to include the BOOZE factor, and BAM! we became the best of friends in no time. Social lubricants rule.

Brazilian Ana is dearly missed (just graduated, sadly and happily at the same time), one of the most wonderful people I've ever met. Her taste in music should be canonized. Yes, I just said that.
Romanian Cristinushki is just grand, every person in the world should get to meet her, she has a fairly contagious smile and loves reading Zadie Smith. Her sense of humour blows my mind to bits. Period.
Belén. The Murcian lady in the greenest of dresses, she is my daily inspiration for achieving greatness. I feel truly blessed to have met such an unbelievably extraordinary human being. I'm flabbergasted for life.

Tapas in Santiago are sort of a daily activity thing, therefore wonderful Isa, Carmen, Connie and myself now hung out with our new acquaintances and eventually became shoelace-tight, for we were to fight together against the horrid negligence of the academic zombies that passed themselves as postgraduate teachers.

TO BE CONTINUED.

St A Overall

So our local coordinators & representatives are asking about our opinions regarding what our overall experience has been (so far) while studying at the peculiar institutions we'd originally chosen for our masters course respective pathways...

FIRST SEMESTER: What I've got to say regarding what education feels like (for a short while, anyways), in that oh-so distinctively bucolic part of Scotland, is what follows:

(yeah, Charity Day with Mar)

Honest to FSM, I have to admit I am not necessarily fond of the institutionalized academic sudden eagerness to resemble, at least method-wise, the Spanish Inquisition. HOLD IT! I exaggerate, mayhaps... Nevertheless I shall proceed to develop my hyperbole, just for the fun of stretching our hold of reality (and to scare the newcomers just a little).
The accused, I mean, pupil here is exposed to a series of psychosomatic resistance exercises ("This is the Sparta of your miiind!'') that end up suspending his/her own sense of being worthy of a right to have a spot on this planet. What a way to challenge young humans in terms of proving their own intellectual potential by pulverizing their self-esteems! Yay! Well there it is! Why the fuck not; one must climb down this murky hole of endless desolation and further abandonment of his/her own hopes and dreams until reaching the neon sign that reads "Candy Mountain" (because, by this time, you're hallucinating, Dorothy). And then, when you least expect it, it is finally over, and you get your degree along with extra wipes to kindly remove the trail of blood and tears you've been leaving behind, ever since you entered Market Street from Albany (the paper's also good for filling up the hole where your soul used to be, never you mind).
I am le-kidding (well, sort of). But then again, I'm the abject in this play. I thus speak as one does from outside of his/her element (let us remember that us art students are usually more adjusted to the challenges of producing objects/relations/spaces through which our own conceptualized melodramas can become sort of materialized and further contemplated by other equally keen dorks). That is the reason why I was taken aback, first hand... HOWEVER, I'm sure any other fair-minded and overall prepared pupil will no less than endure those extremely stressful periods of machine-like paper regurgitating, and encyclopedia-reading until reaching the point where even the thought of food becomes irrelevant to your existence. I mean, come on! as if life itself could not tell us more about the theories we revised during class time (which ponder upon life's phenomena as seen through the eyes of magnificent mind-constructs, developed by individuals capable of forging simultaneous clashings of space and time and viceversa, ok) *...* but anyways, I guess I just wish I had SOME spare time to go to Edinburgh and sip a single pint without the hugeongous (yes, I used that word) remainders of my pending workloads seeping in through the cracks of my liquified pyche. But in the end (of your life) going through hell and being able to verbalize your experience to your fellow oneironauts makes you a stronger being, or just a fair enough person, or some other thing you can brag about to your neighbors and Twitter fans.

Scotland.

The views were fantastic. The food was... edible, almost (when drunk maybe). Some teachers were keen and helpful, others terrible... TERRIBLE (as human beings tend to be from time to time when acquiring enough artificial prestige to assume they're all so mentally infalible, especially when addressing topics that are in fact unattainable from inside of the egocentric schemata that so-well characterizes the "Western" kind of thought). You need to be humble and practice the elasticity of your ego in order to truly understand things outside from yourself (which reflect those inside of you) THEN maybe you can presume to talk about Magic Realism. BOG!

I found it particularly ironic how we studied the limiting incoherences within the cultural discourses that contextually frame certain peoples' way of abstracting reality, and further stuffing it into excruciatingly rational-categorical boxes (which constructs their distinctive regard towards others) ESPECIALLY IN THE UK. But then again our essays were marked under those same standards, which only reaffirmed (as the essence of the performative is explained by Judith Butler, meaning, construction by reiteration) the inescapably faulty squareness of the mind we were on the one hand so keenly criticizing... Odd. I found that to be a bit paradoxical (to put it in a nice way), but maybe I'm confused and wrong and did not learn get the gist of it all :P I guess we'll never know.

At least I find that back where I'm from, in Latin America (well, specifically Mexico) I can relatively manage to pull through, in spite of all the luminiscent nonsense that keeps us from questioning the processess by which the current systematic flow of powerworks inboththepsychoanalitic&economicchannelsofinterpretationreproducingitselfinthefuelthatistheexcessofhumangreedandslothblablablablaIliketurtless (SEE WHAT ST ANDREWS DID TO ME? I NEED REHAB FAST) But then again, that actually reflects how us post-colonial creeps get to live our days, such a weirdly-functional mess we're in, under the imposing capitalist foot of our adorable northern-border neighbors. Lovely.

Hahahahaha lolz, nay.

I think what I enjoyed the most of my experience (apart from learning shitloads of theories) was just LIFE, as shared with the ghetto gang (that sounds dodgy, but I'm talking about the Fife Park intl. student community, FWI). We all truly kept each other afloat during deadly-deadline periods (everyone had his/her own respective crises): we became a hardcore wartime family bunch. Heavy Hemingway-but-in-Rwanda kind of shit: As I've written before, the music room was our precious haven from the world, and we rocked that motherfucker when everybody else was already asleep (even the guard let us stay in for a bit more, he saw how important it was to us). But apart from that we also aced at coexisting with pure empathy: Some cooked (or burned food, depending on the house and its ''malfunctioning oven situation") for the rest. Some kept the coffee pouring during critical hours in the night (I love you for that, Juana). Some studied together destroying living rooms and drinking ethanol-tea. Some escaped to visit others at curious times... Some climbed through kitchen windows to wake up fellow classmates, when alarms failed and exams were needed to be taken (you're welcome, house 15). Some gathered behind the bushes to share songs and weird dances in spite of the cold and the erudite pressures of the approaching next day... just 'cause we were awesome to each other, and that made us pull through in the end.
See? the good overflowed as well. I can therefore proudly announce that I made myself a bunch of brothers and sisters with whom I plan on counting for, for future gatherings of all sorts and colors, since they're so fucking amazing: besides, the world needs these kinds of humans. MORE PLEASE!

I don't take anything back. I keep it all exactly as it went down. That's my perfect kind of narrative. 

*St. A*
(Next is Santiago, oh gawd).

Chacahua

Gawd, I haven't written in ages. So before I forget, here comes this other one.

A month back home meant going through a strange threshold-parenthesis thing, breaking the narrative of my previous experience as a nomadic masters course student in the Old Continent. But I was up for it!

For New Year's, my best bud invited me on a little trip to one of the best known pseudo exotic places in Mexico: Chacahua, an island of joy and joyness belonging to no other place than dear old Oaxaquita de mis amores.

My folks wanted some time off from our city, so we drove over to the center of Oaxaca firsthand, as a family trip thing (mom loves the arts and crafts world over there... I do too). The food there is known to be just heavenly... But afterwards I'd have to find my own way in order to get to the pseudo extremely secluded island where I was to meet Andrecito (my amiguitow del almaw).

It's funny how in some places you feel like a foreigner in your own country. It's even funnier how we had some classes in which we discussed this very phenomenon (I shall write about this later on) back in San AndrésEnEscocia, as my dear Juana once lovingly coined it. Anyways, this is something that happens to me a lot, but's it's just the particularly inherent effect of a place that's so fucking heterogeneous in essence and appearance, as Humboldt once reflected. Well, *Viva el mestizaje cornucopioso* after all (horny Extremeños back in the conquista days: hello post-colonial hybridity!).

So we went to the market to say hi to one of my dad's students, who's originally from there, and helps his mom sell milkshakes and juices during holiday season. After having safely arrived, we were to dine on delicious Tlayudas, which are huge Mexican sope-pizza things that will blow your fucking mind away; amazing culinary inventions. We ate as if winter was coming (which always is) the next day, until our stomachs begged for mercy... then we ate some more, and after that we had dessert. Cynical Mexicans. The mother did not want my father to lay a peso for the meal... it breaks my fucking heart to realize that, the poorer the people: the more generous they are at heart. And I have so much to learn.

Back at the hotel I grabbed my stuff and said bye to my peeps before taking an adventurously dodgy-looking combi vehicle that would supposedly take me to the main spot where I should arrive in order to proceed with the "getting to the magical candy island".

Kiss kiss, hop on, well hello-hello there sexy seat-mates!

The ride took ice-ages, and after some time of meditating in order not to puke my stuffed-guts out I arrived at another spot where I was supposed to take yet another lift to some other sketchy place in the middle of nowhere (as my little map said). I took a donkey, then an eagle, then a kite tied to rocket, then two hedgehogs as roller skates and finally, after riding a taxi all the way to the coast with two hens on my left side (this part was real, tho'!) I got to the swampy area, where people were enjoying the gambling thrill of cock fights (not THAT kind, you dirty reader, youuu!). They seemed to be drinking what looked like gasoline with straws *Viva el mezcal de veldá!*

A nice young man took me on his boat ("Quieeero, montarme en tu veleeeeero, ponerte yo el sombreeeero y hacernos eso ay ay AY AY!" Niet, as the Flemish would say) to the other side of the coast-thing, where I paid the lad with a smile and Mexican coins. I resumed the journey with my bare feet grazing the soft sand of my soul, I mean, with my soles. Ay sole-cito-de-playa, a huevo, bien ahí.

After asking every fucking person for Andrecito's palapa I finally glimpsed his outrageously distinctive nose. I had arrived at the right place: my mate jumped out of his hammock and gave me one of his world-famous unforgettable hugs. His little brother was there and so were two other dudes who studied photography and fine art... what are the odds? actually, once I dropped by humble luggage I looked around and, OH BEHOLD, the fucking island was PACKED with people from ENAP (my uni art school that's called FAP nowadays) or La Esmeralda (our nemesis). It was as if I had crossed the badlands, no man's ocean in order to arrive to the Mecca of the quasi-fake bohemian city-life escapists in Oaxaca. I felt really stupid, even more than usual.

Anyways, overall Chacahua is F-A-N-T-A-S-T-I-C, it's just grand, people... the sad part is that it used to be a natural reserve for biologists to study birds, turtles and the autochthonous flora of the amazing mangrove swamp of the southwestern part of my dear country... However, as it happens with everything that's natural and free and pretty; corporate assholes are trying to buy the land in order to build horrible hotels and ruin it all. So if you're keen fighting capitalist douchebags, you should help us by signing petitions like these:

http://www.change.org/es-LA/peticiones/senadores-de-la-república-mexicana-que-las-playas-mexicanas-no-se-vendan-a-extranjeros-2 and talk to others about this issue, since Mexican politicians are twisting the law in order to allow rich foreigners to buy off the coastal terra firma. Arrrrgh, fuck greedy competition, fuck it hard.

Anyways. Back to our anecdote: we had a fucking blast! there were bonfires during the night (New Year's y'alls!) for all of us fucking hippies to dance around and smoke and drunken blab-chat with everyone around and kiss each other on the earlobes (yuck). There were some guitar players singing Buena Vista Social Club songs (yep) all over the beach side, and I ended up holding hands with a dude that looked a lot like the last guy I dated. Andrecito was like "did you invite "fulanito" over?" And I was like, "WHATTHEFUCK?!!" and I ran away from the seductive doppelgänger.

We drank like thirsty beasts watching looking over the horizon, contemplating each other under the tiny colorful lightbulbs decorating our momentary sanctuary. I ended up giving my mate's brother a lecture on just "taking everything in the most positive way ever always; even when the other asshole might be throwing cynical/ironic/indirect references to your persona in a negative manner". He's amazing, and coped attentively all the way through. Bless the lad.

I met some funky dudes as well, there was a local douche who wanted to take advantage of the fact that we were all out-of-our-minds wasted in order to trick us into paying triple for our drinks. So I had a very interesting conversation with him: I somehow managed to slip into a conscious enough state of being in order to articulate a coherent discussion over the topic of how we (Mexicans in particular) should not treat each other differently/condescendingly just because we pseudo belong to different social classes and we're coloured differently on the surface, skin-wise (which is a taboo subject in my culture). See? it's a fucking idiotic issue that marks my fellow countrymen's way of thought; if you're whiter looking then your a rich conquistador asshole and if you're darker then you're a fucking poor indian idiot... same thing goes both ways. I told him we should talk as if we were REAL mates, standing on the same ground. I said I would believe him, then, if he solemnly swore he was telling us the truth. He automatically changed his expression into a discrete kind of giggle when I looked him in the eye (which I tend to often practice much working with kids in camps) and we ended up paying the fair price. Hell, we drank double. But my guts were on fire; social issues really bug me, especially in my own context... there's so much discrimination it's nasty to have to look behind your back always not to get tricked by anyone anywhere. I plan on doing something about it, naively as it may be, with my stupid little children's books some day. It's just a change of attitude that's needed. De-contextualize yo'selves! Then see what happens.

The next day I met two hippies that really pushed me to the limits, nerve-wise. We talked about a lot of cliché subjects (quinoa patchouli shit), with me being a real bully with their emphatic stubbornness; for "I personally believe" that if everybody just calmed the fuck down with the meat consumption, there would be no need for all the others to go all extreme-vegan-anemic-zombies all of a sudden. It's all about balancing our sides in life. But in the end we laughed our differences out, and decided to go swimming all together in the lake with the bio-photo-luminescent effect *awesome algae*. So I felt like in "Cocoon", yep that ancient film that I happen to love; playing with the light pills we created with our movements in the water and the silhouetted shadows around us... it was magical.

We freed cutesy baby turtles along with local kids and other more touristy-looking folk. Next, we climbed all the way the rocky side that takes you to where the lighthouse's at, in order to find Rimbaud's eternity at play out there, where the sun binds the ocean with the skies.
We met a lot of weird smelling dudes, fantastic German theatrical play makers (I've still to work out ideas for future collaborations!), vegan chefs and just enthusiastic chatters. I particularly shared some amazing moments with my dear friend Andrecito, under Orion's gaze... we've been friends since forever now. Oh, and of course; I got to discuss freakin' art topics with everybody in the freakin' island! Even the crabs had something to say against Damien Hirst... GOSH, I can't escape this shit, not even at the end of the world in the middle of bleepin' NOWHERE.

After saying goodbye to my lovely trip-companions, I took a ride back home with a Swedish guy who travelled all over the world to learn and teach martial arts, and another bloke whom I met during one of our awesome mental parties, so we talked all the way through about music and acute punches to the nuts. Random. Then finally reached the city, DF, and I was dropped off at my uni flat, where I was to take three showers in a row, after cutting off my algae beard (ha, jokes!). MY BED! At last I got some decent rest.

                                                 

                                       

                     
Tell ya some more later on, 'kay?
If you see Kay, tell her she may :D

¡Mægico!

Cambio a Español. Llego a DF. Aeropuerto Benito Juárez.

Mi primo a la entrada. El abrazo grande de siempre.
Cómo estás qué haces te extrañé. Y qué pues a tragar. Pues vamos. Una esquina y a la otra a la derecha en Insurgentes. Ahora qué quiere este ca...ay no mames ya nos paró la pinche patrulla. A ver aguanta que es vieja le aviento el cuento de siempre y vemos.
------El súbito apretarse de la feminidad a lengua suelta------
Oigaoficialperdoneustednuestrarotundaequivocaciónestánarreglandonovimoselcarrildelmetrobúsdiscúlpenosdeverdadsomosestudianteshumanosanimalesimbécilesnomerecemoslavidanoseamalamevoyamorirdehambredetodosmodosporqueestudiéhumanidades.
------El consecuente salivar tan cortado que le erosiona a uno la garganta------
Estábienseñoritalaentiendoperoasíestálacosaperoesperepueslaescoltamosentoncesacasadesuamigoperoeljovennoshaceelfavordeacompañarnosalcorralón.

Vete a hacer ese desmadre y te cáele acá después y vemos. Sin morderse la boca por dentro, seño, de favor. Cómo cagan los puercos. El intestino me palpita. Diamantes de a peso. Diamantina, más bien, en la suela sucia de tu tenis roto.
------Me saltan a la conciencia mis propios complejos sociales y me aprietan la yugular; me doy un verdadero asco yo sola a veces------ 
Se piden tacos. Se comen tacos. Y yo les tiro toda la salsa encima. Otra Pacífico y vemos los coches estamparse unos con los otros en las glorietas de nuestras mentes; la de Camarones y la de Cibeles y la de los Coyotes y la de la Palmera y de las Serpientes porque todas son la misma como lo somos nosotros igual.

El techo lo es también. Halem no llega, pero está Koko, chulo, charlamos. Fumamos. Comemos chetos viejos. Comemos manzanas. Mis maletas en la sala junto al arbolito de navidad castigado en la esquina. Prosopopeya. Entra en escena toda la gente conocida por la puerta roja. Regresa Josema con la fianza pagada. Regresa Halem. Abrazos.
Cómo estás qué haces te extrañé. Fumamos. Se van. Otra piyamada y el timbre sigue sin servir. Casa de Diego, casa del otro Diego. Diana y los gatos y los huacales y los sillones llenos de pelo. Y la bolsa de dormir amarillo y el cuarto color verdeazuladoverdosoazul. Coyoacán y los perros callejeros. Desayunamos tamales de la esquina (soy una cerda y pido siempre de dulce porque de escuincla no podía comer chile). Pasa una semana. Pasan otros dos días. Las noches de mezcal neón y las bachitas juegan a hacer pirámides en las esquinas. Una cama distinta cada noche. Y una azotea y un piso de mosaico vino. Pato. Mis padres furiosos porque no llego a casa. Mi perra mata-leones indiferente, porque no es mía. El camión de toda la vida, el camión de cada fin de semana por siete elongados años de puta cagada. Ciudad en degradados secos y el campo mexicano, el que no sirve porque no lo dejamos servir. Querétaro chido y odioso. Atardeceres plásticos.
La familia y mi cuarto se desenfunda en hojas cansadas y veo las cosas colgadas de la pared que me ponen en cara todo aquello de lo que no me gusta pensar y de lo mismito que sigo amando.


Escocia se ha evaporado. Estoy de vuelta y la cabeza me pesa como ancla.

Santiago, sin ti, ¿qué hago? (esto no es poesía)

A veces, en la pausa de un bostezo

Suele anunciarse el final de los tiempos

Por los rastros de aluminio en tu sanguinario torrencial

Una poca elipsis encerrando un comercial de desodorante.

Y así se contiene a sí mismo un segundo entero

Acurrucadito

-en el necio oscilar de aquel bronce hecho campana

-en el silencio de quien se consume a solas

Como vela eléctrica de iglesia remasterizada,

Es ésta la vuelta al mundo en setena mil millones de putadas
Y de putas (p)atadas.

En el siguiente acto se fragmenta una vasija de arcilla,
Un vaso improvisado para tu clara con limón

Así, contra el adoquín también intolerantemente milenario

Forjándose ya, veinte y tres líneas en la arena

Más una polvareda blanca en la nariz de mi compañero de piso,

Porque el viento aquí escribe con dislexia

Y por eso le pega de muletazos a aquel indigente primer-mundista
Cada cuarto de hora

Para recordar que la heroína es como la matemática 
Y punzo-corta igual en todos lados

Aún con el freno de mano metido hasta el topedelculodelcoche.

Y de pronto (interviene el coro) entiéndolo todo

Y el todo (la orquesta de pie, indignada) me capta también a mí

Pero estas palabras no me sacian y entonces las retuerzo

Me hago de un caldo la inocente destripada

Y del pescuezo insípido, como grifo en desesperación, me invento lo restante

En suma renuncia a mi propia educación

Consumada en un abrir y rebanar de ojos.

Pero bueno, ve y anda lúcida y triste,
Arrastrando sombras peregrinas en Obradoiro

Como prado masticado por las reses

De vuelta al campo, vuelta mierda y vuelta hierba y vuelta vaca.

Así es el arte.

Y pues nada:

Te vuelves cada vez más personal y no sé ni como escribirte

Por eso, mejor, me basta con estas mamadas.

A million planes and finally Hom... no wait... just Chicago

I always have "interesting" stories when it comes to travelling by air (and land, and sea, and plasma). But anyways, after a changing flights for the fourth time I finally landed where I was supposed to land (seriously, wtf, karma). America... the continent, the country: US-fucking-A. Gringowland.

After gathering my bags at the funny serpent thing, while listening to some dubstep, I rushed to the counter: "I'm sorry, señorita, but the plane has already left" DAAAA-FUUUUUUUUUQ. So cynically this gal just stood there, like a Rodin (fist in jaw, a pensive manner) and smiled like a dork (I hadn't slept in like a month, so I couldn't really process what was going on at the time). The dude handling the affair was nice enough, so we shared a bunch of jokes and he offered me a night at a nearby hotel. I'd never been in Chicago before so I agreed. What the hell, another adventure before meeting my peeps. Bring it on!

A text was sent to my family, updating my weird situation (they were expecting it all along). And after that I changed into my comfy clothes (thank God I had packed my winter jacket, for it was fucking SNOWING outside). I walked merrily over to the hotel, following the napkin instructions the dude had nicely drawn for me and arrived. I decided to seize the night so I went out to the center by train. I love taking public transport... you see everything there's needed to be seen. A hologrammatic sample of a society packed in a moving bubble. Marvelous!

Random places were spotted and random people were talked to (there was a German Christmas fair going on). I entered the Arts academy... since a while ago, in 2008 to be precise, while I was really concentrating on sketching Michelangelo's famous David in Florence (that sounds so posh, I almost barfed in my mouth), an old Gringow man approached me and said: "That's not half bad! Let me guess: art student? Where are you studying?" I told him where, he was like "Your accent is flawless!" (doubting whether or not I was playing with his mind, I told him I lived in the States when I was little). You should go to Chicago, the Arts Academy there is fantastic". And so, 6 years later I actually went there... at least for a sneak peek hehehe.

I conversed with some extravagantly dressed students and then just went out, sipped my cup and trudged aimlessly to go take some pictures of Kapoor's giant celestial bean (frijolereando like a bawse). Afterwards I returned to my chambre and watched "Blue is the Warmest Color" online, since the UK has a real' tough piracy blockage system and everybody was talking about how awesome that flick was, I was finally able to watch it. I fucking cried, I loved it so much.

The next day I flew back home.

The End (of the Beginning)

We left St. A... a while ago.

I don't really know how the last bit came to unfold. The only thing I'm completely certain of is that we're all in separate places now, starting our second semester (or fourth, for the previous Mundus generation) and coping with new challenges and meeting new people... Expanding horizons!

Back in Scotland we went through the toughest examination period EVER, handed in out last essays, said our goodbyes (we had a final party that was extremely surreal: I don't know if I was more tired than drunk or viceversa and I apparently "misbehaved" although I don't really remember anything hehehe anyways ¡Viva México!) and I packed my stuff, still a bit hung over and walked over to house 15 to give one last hug to my mateys.

Shit man! just writing about this is making me nostalgic as FUCK.

Anyways: so Alex, Martin and Juanita helped me drag my humongous bags all the way to the cab I had just called for. It was a very strange moment; for I know Juana HATES parting moments (and tends to emphatically avoid them). But there she was... hugging away this little Mexican girl as a temporary closure sort of moment. Next was Alex. Next was Martin. "See you guys soon, yeah? in Mexico or anywhere else in the world!". 

I could feel everything.

The train station welcomed me with a soothing breeze, the cab driver was in a good mood and I finally managed to understand most of what he was saying hahahaha... Scotland...

So I took a large breath, lifted my spirits (which were heavier than my luggage) got in my corresponding compartment, and pressed my nose against the window. Not to think, but to dive in the sentiment of it all.

-----------------------

GLASGOW

I arrived at the main station and ambled my way towards the big clock in the middle. There, standing like a pro, Abe was waiting for me. Perfect timing!

We took my mountainous stuff to his place and had some tea. God we can talk for ages... he showed me his latest project and we got into this mental state that I love: I adore people who dare to think and feel at somewhat the same level aaaaarghhhhhodjeb3qye798eyifa. Good stuff.

We went out into the night, breathing in the entropic uncertainties that twinkled before us. We met some friends of his at one of their houses, drank some sweet wine and played some cumbias (for they all had lived in Latin America for some strange reason). The apartment was plastered with Revolution. Ha.

After that we went out for more drinks with one of the girls (since the other ones had to work the next day... oh, the productive folk). We went to a pub and had a blaaaast. We laughed so much, even the bartender gal was joining in for the fun... then we walked around town and talked some more and then some more after that.

...

The next day I postponed my trip to Edinburgh in order to share one last awesome meal with my awesome mate. So I had my very FIRST (yes, you read correctly) Scottish breakfast. The owner was chatty: 

"So you studied at St. Andrews? I don't fancy the place so much... it has an air of... I can't really explain..."

"It's like a fairy tale town but pushed a bit too far to the edge of the cliff" (suggested, I).

"Ha! why yes, that's precisely what it is".

I don't really think that of the location, but I always tend to finish other people's thoughts when they're being a bit pretentious, so they can move on to more interesting subjects.

Afterwards we went for yet another amazing walk through the parks until it was time for me to leave. And so I did. I hugged my mate, wished him the best of luck (I sincerely do, he is one of the most amazing people I've ever met) and arrived safely at my destination.

La Mer

Uno para ti.

Tu tormentuosa vociferación sobre las vivencias que has tenido en la periferia chiapaneca me ha dejado el alma hecha un océano de lágrimas. Será quizá porque he tenido una tercia de días con sabor a espaguetis del horror con papas (con esto de la visa española, etc). Pero en fin: heme aquí sentada en una periquera primer-mundista mirando aviones a través de mis ojos mestizos, pensando en tus recientes puntos de inflexión existencial.

Si la estación de trenes de Perpiñán es el centro del universo, entonces el aeropuerto de Fráncfort es el fin del mundo, en estos dos segundos. 

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“Desaprender lo sabido es ahora mucho más importante que aprender cosas”
Eduard Punset

Estoy leyendo algunas cosas de este man (para empaparme de un poco del pensamiento españolete) que, a la par, me han hecho reflexionar sobre varias otras.

De pronto me he quedado masticando un hecho en particular, como pedazo de carne chicloso que no se deja convertir en bolo alimenticio. Maldito intenso.

La onda se puede explicar así más o menos: me parece que la habilidad de poder invertir los procesos de construcción del individuo (aquéllos que nos han llevado a forjar la imagen que tenemos de nosotros mismos y que a su vez buscamos proyectar) es un ejercicio que, en mi opinión, no se nos ha enseñado lo suficiente.

Des-apegarse, des-aprender... en fin, desprendernos de algunas de las narrativas que conforman nuestra noción de cómo "somos" y lo que "deberíamos ser" me parece que resulta imprescindible para poder expandir nuestra conciencia/geist (a manera de finalidad sin fin, o seas como mero pretexto para enfocarse en una meta perpetua), con la misión de sentirnos plenamente satisfechos cada vez más y de manera más frecuente (INSACIABLE, LA XALLITA !!!). De manera contraria, estamos acostumbrados a seguir el caminito en línea recta por la zona "legal", en pseudo progresión y que ha sido previamente designada por un entramado/dispositivo abstracto de valores que a final de cuentas nos son ajenos desde un principio. Cambiar de principios duele un friego al final.

¿Te suena familiar, latinoamérica? 

Esto se extra/intrapola (?) hasta que te canses (en grados de individuos hasta lo colectivo), dependiendo de la dimensión de tu preferencia. Somos como la Penélope que se olvidó de la parte de deshilachar su maraña de tejido y le siguió hasta el infinito, quedando convertida en una bola de enredos de colores turbios.
El truco de la cosa está justo en dar el mismo paso pero para atrás, el arrancarnos del ego lo construído por nosotros mismos, que es algo que nos aterra porque pensamos "qué pérdida de tiempo, si el chiste es avanzar al chile y generar un chingomadral de dinero para impresionar a la banda con todo lo que te has comprado el último mes y que te tiene inundado en deudas hasta el cuello ¿no?".

PUES NEL.

Entre las cosas que te he aprendido, querida amiga, está el darle todo a la vida (dando pasos para atrás de vez en cuando, como proceso de re-construcción a manera de ficciones elegidas). Que no te intimiden los retos (these being situations, things, or PEOPLE), porque por más que andes desparramando tripas en el proceso, el que le sigas ahí en la puta lucha como necia que eres es lo que te deja un poquito más de "savoir faire" al final. Digo poquito, pero pa contarle cosas chidas a los nietos... que ojalá tengas miles porque gente como tú debe reproducirse lo más pronto posible y así no todo está perdido.

Quiero irte a visitar a Chiapas, pero, aunque ando lejos de hecho estoy ahí contigo. Y tú acá igual, Mer, cada que me asomo al mar.

Ze Talent Show

I had to move fast because I still had stuff to arrange before Abe's arrival. Little did I know, for while I was preparing my notes for my next essay, still wearing jogging garments, suddenly Juana barged in and announced 'Xallicita, there's someone at the door for you. It's a surpriiiiiiiiiise!". And so it was! Abe had figured out the way to get to my place all by himself (awww) so we greeted him with the tea and the kind of friendliness only our house had to offer.

There was to be a Halloween party going on at our residence common room in the night, so we went for a bike ride around town, visited my dear friend Soph (a magnificent human being with whom I happened to share so much more than a nationality) danced some cumbias in her living room (she asked for it) and went back to ready up the mental truck for some paaaartyinnnng!

The party was ok, I suppose. Nobody was really dancing or anything, but the costumes were fun to look at, at least from the other side of my own "luchador" mask. I introduced Abe to the gang, and after some drinks we went over to the Music Room, yet again, for a final rehearsal with the new members. We rocked like bosses for an hour or so (Abe proved to be an amazing drummer) and we had two other new band members! we managed to convince Lau and her boyfriend Raf, from the second year group to join us for the event (since they were keen on music and fun to get along with anyways). So an ukulele and another fantastic voice were also added to the ensemble. We played "La Bamba" until our fingers and ears bled, with new lyrics that my dad had so nicely suggested we use, to add up to the folkloric atmosphere. 

After some time Abe and I parted momentarily to visit a friend of his who lived in South Street. We took our bikes and went to town: the party over there was basically done by then, but we stayed for a while and talked about St Andrews and electronic music with the hostess and two of her remaining friends. The house was rad! we sipped our ciders while visually absorbing our surroundings (charcoal drawings and movie posters), but after a while the time came to leave.

Back in Fife Park we went over to our usual place at the back of the boys' house. We smoked in a circle, telling more stupid jokes and laughing until reaching complete exhaustion. After that Abe and I went to my place and ate quesadillas while catching up on our more recent existentialist speculations about everything and nothing at the same time. Then we went to sleep.

The next day we biked all over St Andrews, played some more music and in the afternoon we all moved to the Hall where the festival was to take place. Once there we tried some of the food that was available (it was an international event, so there were stalls where our friends were selling all kinds of yummy treats... sweet homemade stomach stuffing!). To kill some time (and anxiety) a bunch of us improvised some rhythms with culinary artifacts so that we could dance a little. And finally, after weeks of conjugating our chaotic musical personalities, we were called on to the stage, to inaugurate the festival with our performance.
GOD HELP ME, WHAT HAD I GOTTEN ME AND MY FRIENDS INTO.

"And now, for our opening act we present: "Carmense un chingo!"

We took a large breath, got in front of everybody, grabbed a mic and an instrument (correspondingly) and tested the equipment as fast our fingers allowed. I honestly don't know why, but after literally a single round of tuning in my guitar (while the rest were had barely finished tying up their laces), I decided it was suddenly time to start singing "PARA BAILAR LA BAAAAMBA!" So everybody had to forcefully join in, hahahahahaha, spontaneously yet in an amazingly accurate manner, according to the impulsive rhythm I had just catalyzed.

It started a little nervously, but in the end we knew what we were doing, so the moment unfolded almost magically: our Latino mood was spreading throughout the audience like fresher's flu. Due to the fantastic attitude Laurita and the rest of the girls were projecting with their infinitely colorful vocals the show was sweeter than ever. We sang some fairly original parts that went like:

A las morenas quiero

a las morenas quiero desde que supe

que morena es la virgen

que morena es la virgen de Guadalupe, Ay arriba y arriba...

or because Carmen tends to (royally) flush anytime someone tells her something nice or attempts to damage her vegetables, she had to sing:

La otra vez que te dije

La otra vez que te dije que eras bonita

Se te puso la cara

Se te puso la cara coloradita, Ay arriba y arriba...

I even had a solo part that I didn't screw up hahaha, my man Martin on the bass had my back, but the thing is we rocked that show... in spite of everything. Aimed, and scored!

After finishing with our usual rock-star racket, we bowed before our applauding peeps, walked away and drank a lot of orange juice we got from the alcohol-free bar stall. After watching the rest of the show went back to our houses in order to have some celebratory drinks (properly spiked ones, please).

Repare en su tesis

This is the end of my sling-shot parenthesis. Next Wednesday I hop on a flying vessel that will elastically take me back to the old continent and to my country's old colonial mother: SPAIN. The sequel is about to begin.

So what the eff happened during all this time I've been not glob-blogging about our adventures?

AN EFFING LOT.

I won't be able to tell about absolutely everything that went on during the last part of our extremely tumultuous semester back in St Andrews :( but for the sake of the adventure I shall write about the most "transcendental" incidents that moved the Mundus gang to a new level of cohabitation.

This is for Juanita (I love and miss you and nothing makes sense anymore haha).

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Chapter I: ZE MUSIC ROOM

An unexpected bunch of us really bonded over playing awesomely OLD songs from our shared childhoods. Cheesy as our covers may have been, we still managed to improvise cumbia rhythms heaving on the piano and bass (to which little Alex had to keep up with the drums... he managed). I'll give us that.

Both then again the lovely hippie and the barbie were extremely gifted singers (each on their own fields and preferences), hence we formed a nice sort of musical conglomerate in spite of our differing styles (in hairdo, especially).

I don't even remember how or why, but due to a particularly incoherent kind of scenario, Mar, one of the lovely gals from second year gals ended up inviting me to play at her society's talent show. I agreed, because I'm Mexican and that's what we do (nah, it also sounded appealing as a challenge). So I decided to implicate others in the scheme: Machiavellic Xalli mode ON!

During one of our "Music Room" gatherings I subtly announced the gang that we had the unique opportunity of testing our capabilities as a group... at a real uni gig. Nobody payed close attention to that, but we practiced on. Each time I insisted a little more ('Hey guys, I've already given our names to the board', 'Hey guys, we need a to choose two songs to play, we've got two million unfinished ones!') until the time came when nobody really doubted the fact that we WERE gonna play. Inception-Mission accomplished.

'Hey guyzzzzz, we need a name for our band.'

After a rigorous cheap whiskey drinking session (to which we munched jalapeño jam sandwiches, 'cos we're real macho, that's why) sitting on the doorstep of one of the boys' dorms, facing the indecorous bushes, we had an epiphanic moment. Carmencita, the lovely Colombian pseudo hippie, approached as cutely as she always did while we were cracking up to some stupid joke. I decided it would be a good idea to shout to her "CÁRMENSE UN CHINGO!". Pause.

Contextualization: I had just explained to them the Mexican expression "Cálmense un chingo!" (which literally means something like "relax a f*cking lot, y'all!") so, naturally, due to our altered state of humor, we all laughed (Carmen turned purple out of blushing so much) and realized we had just come up with what was to become our legitimately ultimate band name.

This was during the time I finally decided to move to Fife Park (I gave up having to move back and forth like a yo-yo in order to avoid sleeping on other people's floors. Too often did I end up doing that). I packed my stuff, said my goodbyes to my soon-to-be ex-flatties (OMG), took a cab accompanied by Jan and Juju, and arrived to my brand new room. How did I manage to convince the managers to switch residences? ask me one day you see me drunk as f*ck ;) you won't regret it.

Anyways, in order to celebrate yet another Machiavellic-Xalli victory, I went over to the Music Room to play some cathartic self-welcoming tunes on the lovely piano. Jan, or as we ended up calling her: Juanita, joined in for the fun and we ended up recording one of my hilariously defective Youtube videos. We played The Cranberries' "Linger" on the guitar for the two of us to sing along.

Evidence: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FhrJ7ubfFn0

The following weekend was bound to be extra special, because, in addition to the fact that the Talent Show was scheduled for Saturday, I would host one of my dearest friends: Abe, a philosopher as crazy as I am, who had recently moved over to Glasgow to carry on with his PHD studies. I called and warned him about that hehehe, so it was ON!