La jauría

Y la fiesta se acaba,

y los cuentos de hadas que te ayudaban a dormir, 

los sueños de piel sin poros, 

las noches en medio de aquel santuario de lobos, 

la jauría de dos, 

huir al norte,

al norte de mi.

Por quién doblan las campanas

“Keep right on lying to me. That's what I want you to do.” — Ernest Hemingway

Witness to my Life

My dear little girl

For a long time I’ve been wanting to write to you in the evening after one of those outings with friends that I will soon be describing in “A Defeat,” the kind when the world is ours. I wanted to bring you my conqueror’s joy and lay it at your feet, as they did in the Age of the Sun King. And then, tired out by all the shouting, I always simply went to bed. Today I’m doing it to feel the pleasure you don’t yet know, of turning abruptly from friendship to love, from strength to tenderness. Tonight I love you in a way that you have not known in me: I am neither worn down by travels nor wrapped up in the desire for your presence. I am mastering my love for you and turning it inwards as a constituent element of myself. This happens much more often than I admit to you, but seldom when I’m writing to you. Try to understand me: I love you while paying attention to external things. At Toulouse I simply loved you. Tonight I love you on a spring evening. I love you with the window open. You are mine, and things are mine, and my love alters the things around me and the things around me alter my love.

My dear little girl, as I’ve told you, what you’re lacking is friendship. But now is the time for more practical advice. Couldn’t you find a woman friend? How can Toulouse fail to contain one intelligent young woman worthy of you*? But you wouldn’t have to love her. Alas, you’re always ready to give your love, it’s the easiest thing to get from you. I’m not talking about your love for me, which is well beyond that, but you are lavish with little secondary loves, like that night in Thiviers when you loved that peasant walking downhill in the dark, whistling away, who turned out to be me. Get to know the feeling, free of tenderness, that comes from being two. It’s hard, because all friendship, even between two red-blooded men, has its moments of love. I have only to console my grieving friend to love him; it’s a feeling easily weakened and distorted. But you’re capable of it, and you must experience it. And so, despite your fleeting misanthropy, have you imagined what a lovely adventure it would be to search Toulouse for a woman who would be worthy of you and whom you wouldn’t be in love with? Don’t bother with the physical side or the social situation. And search honestly. And if you find nothing, turn Henri Pons, whom you scarcely love anymore, into a friend.

[…]

I love you with all my heart and soul.

* De Beauvoir would come to have a number of young female lovers, whom she’d usually introduce to Sartre over the course of their relationship.

Fear and Trembling

“Because it is possible to create — creating one’s self, willing to be one’s self… — one has anxiety. One would have no anxiety if there were no possibility whatever.”

hapiness

this isn't

Jenny

She couldn't imagine me not in her life, but she had very clearly imagined herself not in mine.

-gjallard

Tu problema

Qué ya no escribes.

¿Sabes cual es tu problema? dice,
                        que dejaste de escribir historias.

Si a mi no me gusta escribir.

Lo que a mi me gusta es que me escriban.

A mi lo que me gusta es que me escribas.

Show me the place

Fatal or otherwise

Anne Sexton to her daughter

Dear Linda,

I am in the middle of a flight to St. Louis to give a reading. I was reading a New Yorker story that made me think of my mother and all alone in the seat I whispered to her “I know, Mother, I know.” (Found a pen!) And I thought of you — someday flying somewhere all alone and me dead perhaps and you wishing to speak to me.

And I want to speak back. (Linda, maybe it won’t be flying, maybe it will be at your own kitchen table drinking tea some afternoon when you are 40. Anytime.) — I want to say back.

1st I love you.

2. You never let me down.

3. I know. I was there once. I too, was 40 with a dead mother who I needed still. . . .

This is my message to the 40 year old Linda. No matter what happens you were always my bobolink, my special Linda Gray. Life is not easy. It is awfully lonely. I know that. Now you too know it — wherever you are, Linda, talking to me. But I’ve had a good life — I wrote unhappy — but I lived to the hilt. You too, Linda — Live to the HILT! To the top. I love you 40 year old, Linda, and I love what you do, what you find, what you are!—Be your own woman. Belong to those you love. Talk to my poems, and talk to your heart — I’m in both: if you need me. I lied, Linda. I did love my mother and she loved me. She never held me but I miss her, so that I have to deny I ever loved her — or she me! Silly Anne! So there!

XOXOXO
Mom

Reasons

I fight for the wrong reasons, 

because the right reasons won't let me fight for them.

A.

Old rags

Sísifo

,,
MY DEAR,

I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO TODAY, HELP ME DECIDE.

SHOULD I CUT MYSELF OPEN AND POUR MY HEART ON THESE PAGES? OR SHOULD I SIT HERE AND DO NOTHING, NOBODY’S ASKING ANYTHING OF ME AFTERALL.

SHOULD I JUMP OFF THE CLIFF THAT HAS MY HEART BEATING SO AND DEVELOP MY WINGS ON THE WAY DOWN? OR SHOULD I STEP BACK FROM THE EDGE, AND LET THE OTHERS DEAL WITH THIS THING CALLED COURAGE.

SHOULD I STARE BACK AT THE EXISTENTIAL ABYSS THAT HAUNTS ME SO AND TRY DESPERATELY TO GRAB FROM IT A SENSE OF SELF? OR SHOULD I KEEP WALKING HALF-ASLEEP, ONLY HALF-LOOKING AT IT EVERY NOW AND THEN IN TIMES IN WHICH I CAN’T HELP DOING ANYTHING BUT?

SHOULD I KILL MYSELF OR HAVE A CUP OF COFFEE?

FALSELY YOURS,


A. CAMUS

A Natural History of Love

We think of it as a sort of traffic accident of the heart. It is an emotion that scares us more than cruelty, more than violence, more than hatred. We allow ourselves to be foiled by the vagueness of the word. After all, love requires the utmost vulnerability. We equip someone with freshly sharpened knives; strip naked; then invite him to stand close. What could be scarier?

+Diane Ackerman

Sin trucos

Las drogas son todas diferentes,
y las que me quiero procurar hoy son especificas,
son meses ya desde la ultima vez que salí a comer en esta oficina,
desayuno pan tostado y tres tazas de café hasta que es la hora de salir,
entonces me entra un hambre tremenda y compro alguna cosa que como fría en el camino a alguna lado.


No hablo con nadie en todo el día,
escucho mi voz por primera vez pasado el medio día,
la escucho en un idioma que no es el mio,
diciendo cosas que no quiere decir,
mis clientes no entienden lo que mi boca dice,
a veces yo tampoco.


A la hora de la comida me quedo tomando café,
leyendo de manera pretenciosa a Salinger y escuchando Elliott Smith,
suena a desastre,
aunque reamlente no lo es,
suena a cliché,
eso quizá,
si algo sí es,
es droga.

Estoy pensando seriamente dejar de tomar,
no por las razones,
sino porque tomar me gusta mucho,
cuando tomo me pongo muy contento,
tan contento que tomo más,
hasta que puedo llorar porque en el fondo de lo contento hay siempre algo profundamente triste,
llorar también me gusta a veces,
más veces de las que la gente creería,
de esa parte me gustaría participar nada más,
ser parte de tu parte, carne de tu carne,
carne de catarsis,
del lagrimal,
pero el camino es largo y doloroso hasta allá,
por hoy solo  café, cigarros y painkillers,
en litio y cuentos cortos,
la droga.

De las 154 canciones de Elliott Smith que se estan reproduciendo la 122 es Everything means nothing to me.
Es la 1:33 pm y si tomamos en cuenta que he escuchado sin parar desde las 7:00 am. el resultado es que le tomarían seis horas y media tocar 122 canciones a Elliott Smith, si estuviera vivo.

Me gustaría que nos vieramos,
mataría,
sin trucos,
sin tragos ni policía,
tu, yo y dos tazas de café,
aunque sea por la noche,
aunque haya que matar para poder dormir,
no podré dormir de cualquier forma,
¿que dices?

Ernest

Your clown

Not really as composed as you appear

Lunes

David Foster Wallace

A moveable feast

When my moment comes

Miller