23 may. 2015

Mi Subrayados


-The Drowned World por J. G. Ballard


Let me speak your name and in speaking let me sing, a secret melody whose notes rise like birds and fall into your ears, to turn you toward me, with a smile that anticipates your own hidden song that choruses with my name. Let me speak your name so I may hear my name spoken to me from you. You cannot imagine the sensuousness of speech, you who have spoken all your life, you who have mouthed words like bread, a staff of life common on your tongue. You cannot appreciate the luxury speech represents to those of us who have no time for it, we who speed our words, transmitting mind to mind without mediation, not even the briefest pause between mind and mouth to temper what we say or to soften sharp
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individual life is misleading. Each one of us is as old as the entire biological kingdom, and our bloodstreams are tributaries of the great sea of its total memory. The uterine odyssey of the growing foetus recapitulates the entire evolutionary past, and its central nervous system is a coded time scale, each nexus of neurones and each spinal level marking a symbolic station, a unit of neuronictime.
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His unconscious was rapidly becoming a well-stocked pantheon of tutelary phobias and obsessions, homing on to his already over-burdened psyche like lost telepaths.
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(Logically—for what had a more gloomy prognosis than life?—)
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Phantoms slid imperceptibly from nightmare to reality and back again, the terrestrial and psychic landscapes were now indistinguishable, as they had been at Hiroshima and Auschwitz, Golgotha and Gomorrah.
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Although the apartment was beginning to look ramshackle and untidy, Beatrice continued to tend her own appearance devotedly. On the few occasions when Kerans called she would be sitting on the patio or before a mirror in her bedroom, automatically applying endless layers of patina, like a blind painter forever retouching a portrait he can barely remember for fear that otherwise he will forget it completely. Her hair was always dressed immaculately, the make-up on her mouth and eyes exquisitely applied, but her withdrawn, isolated gaze gave her the waxen, glace beauty of an inanimate mannequin. At last, however, she had been roused.
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The Number of the Beast por Robert Heinlein.

—“Women are like spiders, they sit there watching you and knitting their webs”
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You don’t talk if you know tango.
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(Why do I get these attacks of honesty? I’ve never done anything to deserve them.)
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This Universe never did make sense; I suspect that it was built on government contract.
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Deety darling, keep him on a short leash and don’t feed him meat. But marry him-
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I have no precognition for harmless events. But this split-second knowledge when I need it has kept me alive and relatively unscarred in an era when homicide kills more people than does cancer and the favorite form of suicide is to take a rifle up some tower and keep shooting until the riot squad settles it.
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You always did have a wise head, Deety. Women are toughminded, men are not; we have to protect them… while pretending to be fragile ourselves, to build up their fragile egos. But I’ve never been good at it-I like to play with matches.”
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"First secret of living with a man: Feed him as soon as he wakes.”
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Some people go to church to talk to God, Whoever He is. When I have something on my mind, I talk to Jane. I don’t hear “voices,” but the answers that, come into my mind have as much claim to infallibility, it seems to me, as any handed down by any Pope speaking ex cathedra. If this be blasphemy, make the most of it; I won’t budge. Jane is, was, and ever shall be, worlds without end. I had the priceless privilege of living with her for eighteen years and I can never lose her.
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Deety, never encourage a man to cook breakfast; it causes him to wonder if women are necessary. If you always get his breakfast and don’t raise controversial issues until after his second cup of coffee, you can get away with murder the rest of the time. They don’t notice other odors when they smell bacon.
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“That’s right, dear. Never tell a man anything he doesn’t need to know, and lie with a straight face rather than hurt his feelings or diminish his pride.”
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“No philosopher allows his opinions to be swayed by facts-he would be kicked out of his guild. Theologians, the lot of them.”
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I will not spank a pregnant woman. But I can think about it.
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What better time to drink life to the dregs than when we know that any hour may be our last?”
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A dead person’s clothes should be given away or burned; nothing should be kept that does not inspire happy memories.
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Let us all preserve our illusions; it lubricates social relations.
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‘A man who bets on greed and dishonesty won’t be wrong too often.’
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(I never enjoy looking at my wife quite so much as when she lights up and is suddenly a little girl.)
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I’ve decided to stay grown up. It’s not easy. But it’s more satisfying. An adult doesn’t panic at a snake; she just checks to see if it’s got rattles.
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cops and courts no longer protect citizens, so citizens must protect themselves.”
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“Wouldn’t that be sump’n? No, for mechanical reasons I think they take turns. Whether ten minutes apart or ten years, deponent sayeth not. But I’d give a pretty to see two of ‘em going to it!” “Sharpie, you’ve got a one-track mind.” “It’s the main track. Reproduction is the main track; the methods and mores of sexual copulation are the central feature of all higher developments of life.” “You’re ignoring money and television.” “Piffle! All human activities including scientific research are either mating dances and care of the young, or the dismal sublimations of born losers in the only game in town.
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“Logic is an organized way of going wrong with confidence.”
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You smell yummy and should marinate another week. It’s not your cortex or your character I love but your carcass-delectable! If it weren’t for these seat belts, it would be rape, rape, rape, all the way to the ground. Actually you’re sort o’ stupid-but what a chassis!”
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never monkey with a system that is working well enough-First Corollary of Murphy’s Law.
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Sharpie said, “I have a suggestion, Cap’n Zebbie.” “Science Officer, I like your suggestions.” “You won’t like this one. When all else fails, tell the truth.”
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“You’re a smart girl, Gay.” “Then why am I pushing this baby carriage?”
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(Why do women have this compulsion to confess? It is not a typical male Vice.)
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People who pass up temptations have only themselves to blame.
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Jane taught me that the only important rule is not to hurt people… which very often-Jane’s words!-consists in not talking unnecessarily.”
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Men need us but can just barely stand us; every now and then they have to discuss our faults.
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The ability of the male mind to rationalize its deeds-and misdeeds-cannot be measured. (And some female minds. But we females have more wild animal in us; mostly we don’t feel any need to justify ourselves. We just do it, whatever it is, because we want to. Is there ever any other reason?)
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Long habit is not changed by mere good resolution;
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When a man looks at a new and attractive woman and decides that he is too tired, it’s time.
When he doesn’t even look, push him over and bury him; he’s failed to notice that he’s dead.
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“If you read it correctly it’s all in the Bible. ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’ Could anyone ask for a plainer statement of the self-evident fact that nothing exists until someone imagines it and thereby gives it being, reality? The distinction lies only in the difference between ‘being’ and ‘becoming’- a distinction that cancels out when any figment-fact is examined from different ends of the entropy error-“
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“There are three schools of magic. One: State a tautology, then ring the changes on its corollaries; that’s philosophy. Two: Record many facts. Try to see a pattern. Then make a wrong guess at the next fact; that’s science. Three: Awareness that you live in a malevolent universe controlled by Murphy’s Law, sometimes offset in part by Brewster’s Factor: that’s engineering.”
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1 may. 2015

Viviendo miles de años.




Vivir 4000 años, o un poco menos; La oportunidad de generar un juicio y memoria incluso subconsciente de cada situación posible. 100 años de dedicación a una única habilidad te convertiría no sólo en una eminencia en 400 campos y especialidades. También te daría la asombrosa suma de toda esa experiencia, si tan sólo el conocimiento fuera acumulable.
Ahora, el vivir tanto no te convierte en un super humano, solamente pone tus capacidades ya existentes en una posibilidad de experiencia de 50 generaciones. ¿Cómo se podría recordar la infancia en la madurez? Mas en un análogo que suma vidas y vidas.


Aun así el cerebro tiene capacidades sobre las cuales desconoce su límite si el detrimento y el perecer no le fueran inevitables a tan corto plazo.
Tal vez en dos milenios podamos recordar el primer beso, o una cicatriz en el codo encerrando las memorias dentro de la primer década de vida.


El cuerpo mismo tiene muchas maneras de recordarle a la mente sus excesos, descuidos, lecciones e infortunios.


La memoria no es continua, y la mnemotecnia que utiliza se basa en los recuerdos y consecuencias sobre el cuerpo que la porta, sobre la cotidianidad de patrones, sean etológicos o de percepción; En un cúmulo de cuatro mil años ¿La automatización de la conciencia podría ser perfecta?


Toda la mente afinada a cada evento, situación y posibilidad plausible dentro de los parámetros del contexto. Por supuesto, sin mayor propósito que la continuidad de su existencia.


No, no es posible; Sus capacidades son dinámicas y adaptables, así como el universo que habita. El pozo de su creatividad es incomprensiblemente enorme. Aún deprivado de sus sentidos, la mente crea sus propias percepciones. Sus mecanismos de vida en sí misma lo exigen.


Imagino un feto de probeta, creciendo en un tanque de deprivación sensorial hasta el desarrollo del producto completo. Una placenta artificial realiza el ciclo de nutrientes que evita la activación completa de órganos respiratorios y digestivos. Pero aún en la ingrávida oscuridad de ese útero, el cabello crece, la apoptosis transforma muñones palmeados en dedos y pies, y lo más importante, el corazón late. Un ritmo, un metrónomo que regula estando sano, toda otra variedad de ciclos y metabolismos.


Un agente de entrada para información, que es irremplazable en tal papel.


En el silencio más absoluto el corazón e inclusive la dilatación de vasos es audible en su ejercicio. Con todo y se naciera de creación sin sentidos, la sensación, el pensamiento, el instinto y principio fundamental de la existencia como cerebro es que el corazón tenga un latir. La mínima variación le daría a la mente una diferencia de pautas sobre las cuales imaginar y recordar posibilidades infinitas en permutación a tres dimensiones: Ritmo, pausa, y la duración de ambos.


Un cerebro tiene por principio que el cuerpo en su dependencia funcione, es su función estructural mecánica, adaptativa. El encerrar una mente imaginativa es una consecuencia evolutiva secundaria y muy costosa energéticamente; Un cerebro no necesita de una mente para funcionar, y mientras una mente no se pueda almacenar artificialmente, el simple contraer del corazón le dará universos para imaginar y desarrollar.


El nacer humano hace intrínseco que el metabolismo llene de información la mente. Mientras el contenedor de la mente sea perecedero con alimentación de los sentidos, e impuesto a una gravedad perceptible a nivel funcional, la mente tendrá caós de magnitud universal para soñar.


Es entonces cuando se elimina el factor de existencia finita, que sus capacidades y límites escapan del conocimiento, porque no existe evidencia alguna de que sucede con la mente a tan largo plazo.


Lo más razonable es creer en las limitantes cognitivas y racionales del cerebro óptimamente sano en la media de vida humana.


La memoria no puede recordar todo.


Toda conexión que mantiene una memoria, si no es utilizada, reciclada, referencial a otras memorias o reforzada incluso por el misterio del sueño, se pierde. Sus conexiones decaen, mueren en una pequeña explosión de luz, se mueven y utilizan para otra cosa. La muerte de algo que representó un momento de existencia.


Entonces, la conciencia descansa sobre cada cicatriz de experiencia previa, de sus alegrías y hambre de continuidad. Se conserva lo que te hace seguir vivo, lo que crees que es importante para seguir vivo. Lo demás son vestigios borrosos de la existencia, del tiempo cuando lo llamábamos ahora, entradas que funcionan como índices de una librería infernal.


Para una mente de cuatro mil años, su resiliencia a ese peso es desconocida. Tal vez la demencia como destino. Una intoxicación de tanta vida para la cual jamás se concibió, para la cual tal vez sea una pobre herramienta. Tal vez una serenidad de la adaptación rápida en respuesta a tantas experiencias acumuladas, el ensimismamiento retórico como un refugio en opuesto diametral a la demencia. O solamente la misma mente incapaz de madurar más allá de sus propias capacidades, desechando recuerdos, soñando, buscando el continuar su vida cubriendo las necesidades metabólicas y autocreadas como componente cultural del ser, como mente; Una persona adulta con un millón de días exactamente iguales en potencial al de cualquier persona.

La mente no cambia, sólo se adapta para cumplir la directiva primaria, seguir vivo.

29 abr. 2015

Cayendo en la atmósfera. Se acaba la garantía.



Día libre, la situación ahora habitual de no tener compromiso alguno ni actividad me da como única opción el invitar a comer a una de mis hermanas.

Sin querer ir más lejos por la hora y la amenaza de lluvia nos dirigimos al Costo por una pizza sin ningún rastro de carne. Es mi hermana vegetariana, tiene 24 años, pero su desprecio por la proteína animal desde hace 8 años la hace ver casi como una contemporánea.

Smootie de café, pizza familiar para sólo dos personas y un refresco ocupan nuestra mesa. La pizza es de lo mejor en calidad y precio que conocemos ahora, algo cambiaron en sus recetas e ingredientes que la hacen más crujiente, fresca y al queso una cascada quemante de suave delicia al levantar de la caja una rebanada.

Entre la charla de “Voy a hacer esto, estoy haciendo aquello” que me pone al día de su faena común decide arrojar una terrible pregunta con sus razones:

-¿Qué crees le suceda a la casa cuando ya no estemos? Porque si te fijas estamos muy mal. Quien sabe quien viva para tenerla al final.-

Pienso las matemáticas de la herencia canina y nuestra expectativa de vida. –La Chiquis II-. Le respondo.

Chiquis era nuestra querida perra cocker que falleció el pasado Noviembre después de 15 años de hacernos compañía, y más a mí en sus últimos seis meses antes de su muerte, mientras me encontraba sin trabajo encerrado en la casa con sólo ella como alguien a quien querer e interactuar.

Con terrible dolor recuerdo mis últimas palabras a la Chiquis justo antes de que el veterinario en nuestra casa la durmiera: “Una vez allá, diles que soy bueno, tú sabes que en el fondo soy bueno”. Para finalmente con un beso de esos que sólo le puedes dar a una mascota la despedí.

Ahora tenemos dos perros de unos dos años cada uno, los cuales vivirán unos trece años más y seguramente tendremos otro después de ellos, que es a quien llamo Chiquis II, pensando que no viviremos hasta los sesenta ni mis hermanas ni yo, ella heredará nuestra casa.

Fue entonces que el tren de pensamiento se descarriló y cobró muchas víctimas humanas y millones en gastos al estado mental que gobierna mi cerebro (Que al momento ya tenía su imagen pública destrozada). Es muy posible que ninguno alcancemos la sesentena.

Mi madre falleció antes de los cincuenta y seis, cáncer. Mi padre a los 52, diabetes. Abuela materna, sesenta y dos, complicaciones cardíacas. Abuela paterna, diabetes a los sesenta y tres. Abuelo paterno, cáncer. Y eso sin contar la variedad de tíos y primos con diabetes y pleitos en el corazón. Sí,  falta mi abuelo materno en la lista, pero él fue la única casualidad de un accidente de tráfico a los treinta y cuatro; Dos camionetas, once personas, un único muerto. Esa perspectiva suena mucho peor.

Un día en el hospital, mientras esperábamos resultados en terapia intensiva de una tercera cirugía en mi madre. Un médico me pidió si tenía tiempo, si algunos de sus estudiantes podían hacerme entrevistas generales sobre mi salud e historial familiar como práctica. Les conté exactamente lo mismo. A lo que agregaron una sola pregunta más “¿Algún familiar cercano con historial de enfermedades mentales?”. “Ninguno certificado, pero deberían vernos en una semana cualquiera”. Muchas risas siguieron mí respuesta, pero en la mirada de todos sólo encontraba lástima al terminar la entrevista.

También es claro, mi hermana con una tercera parte de su vida sin tocar carne ya reflejaba tanto el envejecimiento prematuro, como el cansancio y síntomas a largo plazo que eso presenta. Nuestra hermana más joven, con problemas serios en la columna y de estrógenos. Mi tercera y la mayor de mis hermanas con un historial de visitas al hospital por enfermedad que promediaron una al año desde hace como veinte.

Al final estaba yo, que de hecho, a pesar de mi eterno bajo peso y mi terrible hábito de fumador, así como la maldición cromosómica del XY. Me encontraba sólo con mis problemas mentales. Mi hermana lo recalca  mientras sus pupilas se dilataban del frío y cafeína de su bebida.

-Yoali con sus enfermedades, Alin con sus problemas, yo con mi condición. El que mejor está eres tú. Y eso no es mucho decir”.-

Ya lo que sucederá con la casa lo decidiría el último que quede. Pero sí, tanto el presente como la ascendencia nos concede con mucha suerte treinta años más. Era la historia y nuestros cuerpos dando su sentencia con tics y tocs.

Lunar



El sabor de lodo en el agua; el deje metálico, partículas de tierra bailando entre los dientes. El sabor es fresco con el olor de hojas verdes olvidadas en el suelo después de la lluvia.

Noche de luna gibosa en un bosque negro. Sigo bebiendo, deshago con mis dedos la huella en el suelo que me sirve de plato. Hincado sorbo de la tierra con mis labios.

El rastro es reciente, tal vez tanto como hoy.

Sólo fue una caminata cansada, algo de sed y un impulso; Por la negrura líquida goteando de las sombras y arbustos, de los brillos adiamantados techando el cielo. Tantos que se deben turnar para brillar.

No pensé que realmente sucedería.

Al tragar lo último bajo la noche de otoño, sigo la oscuridad con mis oídos. Entonces el calor inicia. Luz de luna cosquillea en mi piel como si el sol directo del atardecer. Una fiebre ligera e inmediata pienso con la costumbre de mala suerte, tal vez de andar en la lluvia con el viento sobre mi rostro. Pero mi respiración es profunda, clara, los sonidos con esa propiedad única de la naturaleza en silenciosa expectativa, cada murmullo un alarido, cada rama una orquesta de maderas, logro escuchar al mundo dormir y respirar. Abro los ojos e inhalo la noche.

Todo es tan claro, tan brillante. Los tonos grises del bosque son ahora vividos azules, una pintura hecha con los tonos del océano que se sabe profundo desde la superficie. Los negros desaparecieron, ahora sólo pequeños grises de una foto en que removieron todo el gamma. Me levanto y corro hacía un claro, la humedad, sensación y movimiento bajo mis botas demasiado presente. El bosque me inunda, me ahoga en sus olores; Lo perene del pino y oyamel, los restos de árboles pudriéndose, las heridas resinosas en tocones viejos, la casi imperceptible finura de flores perfumadas, tan sutiles, por todos lados, como el recordar el aroma de una amante. Puedo escuchar y oler el plumaje nuevo de un polluelo en las copas, el rocío en sus plumas, su pequeño corazón que a campanazos quiere ahuyentar el frío. Los restos de insectos en los charcos, el esqueleto enlodado de alguna sabandija en una sanja olvidada por una presa hace muchos días.

Hay otros olores, con color, con memoria, de cosas que ya no están ahí; Un espectro azul similar a las luces después de una caída, pero indeleble en su paso, entre plantas y hongos, flotando, el rastro de algo peludo, mojado ¿Enfermo?, ¿La enfermedad puede  tener un olor? No, no enfermo, muriendo. Puedo oler su cansancio, su olor produce sonidos de huesos viejos, de patas lastimadas, de piel derramándose sobre un cuerpo viejo. Puedo oler que sabe lo que viene a continuación. Pero no hay miedo, sin transpiraciones, u otro rastro de que la muerte que le escolta sea algo no bienvenido.
Hay muchos otros rastros similares, algunos son amarillos, naranjas. Esferas concentradas en las bases y el suelo, hablan de fuerza, de hambre, de necesidad por destacarse y defender esa necesidad. Puedo oler juventud, juventud femenina, salud. Oh, es tan diferente al fantasma azul. Tiene deseo donde el fantasma es aceptación, una pizca de algo nuevo, de sangre, de calor. Es una línea rosada que cruza y da vueltas por el bosque, las líneas que dibuja una luciérnaga a la distancia.
No puedo despegar mi mirada del suelo, mi nariz de la tierra. Puedo oler las historias del bosque. El mundo es nuevo completamente, todo grita por atención. Me detengo, respiro profundamente otra vez, y miro al cielo por primera vez.

No me puedo mover, el espectáculo me hipnotiza. Luces, luces, tantas estrellas, tanto brillo. Pinceladas de cuarzo cruzan el firmamento de horizonte a horizonte, todo salpicado, y aún entre la profundidad se distinguen pinceladas de colores, volutas de finas nubes con perfiles perlados que se retiran cansadas. Flamas y velas que deslumbran pero no lastiman, candelabros infinitos con el contraste de fondo que parece polvo de plata.

La alegría me inunda, ahora deseo ver la luna. Busco su disco entre la incandescencia blanca que cubre todo, la encuentro.

Duele ver lo hermosa que es, me destruye, me hace sufrir, me calienta como un regazo el sólo contemplarla. Quiero bailar, correr, entregarle mi vida, verla para siempre, quedarme ciego en vez de observar algo diferente a ella otra vez. Pero no puedo moverme. Éxtasis, esa es la palabra, éxtasis histérico, paroxismo selenoide. Como un demente, como un amante, como alguien feliz sólo puedo gritar mi placer, mi hambre, escapar completo en un berrido, una y otra vez. Si puedo pasar lo que me queda de vida llorándole no me importará nada más.
Abro los ojos, la noche con su millón de olores y concierto de vida aún adornan mi alrededor. Busco la luna, desconozco porque me quede dormido. Ahí está, a sólo instantes de desaparecer por el borde del mundo. Su amor electriza cada pequeño movimiento, en el latir de mi corazón, en cada fracción de mi piel. La luna me ama y yo la amo.

Comienzo a seguir las veredas hacía la cumbre, líneas de colores me guían, me llaman con instrucciones de pasos y seguridad.

Entre riscos bajo la luz completa del firmamento encuentro un animal muerto y la señal de los colores dice que me detenga. Lleva tan poco sin respirar, tan reciente como hoy mismo. A pesar de que mi cuerpo recuerda el hambre, los colores me dicen que no debo tocarlo.

Su olor es como del azul moribundo, pero con patinas verdes, de vida, de algo muy importante que se vuelve más importante por dejar de ser.

De las ligeras sombras salen los portadores de colores, aquellos que son fuerza, necesidad, deseo. Rojos, naranjas, rosas. Una manada, mi manada. De sus patas surgen cachorros que alegres comienzan a mordisquear al animal muerto. Algunos adultos les ayudan a remover la piel muerta sin olor, un cascarón café en sus patas, una carcasa suave sobre la espalda, rasgan para dejar descubierta piel de un rosa y blanco tenue, piel que sí estuvo viva, piel que oculta sangre.

Los cachorros comen, es lo correcto. Me lo dicen los colores, me lo dice la Luna suspirando su arrullo a mi corazón.

Respiro profundamente, puedo olerme, es el aroma de la tierra nueva, del mundo después de la lluvia, emanando de mí. Soy el azul brillante ya sin enfermedad, el azul que bordea la Luna. Me reconozco finalmente, mi manada me reconoce. Entonces gritamos todos de felicidad por el regalo de la Luna.

26 abr. 2015

Mis Subrayados

 -Elric at the End of Time, por Michael Moorcock

“They dispossessed the bodiless vampire goat-folk of Kia,” explained Werther. “Who, in turn, destroyed— or thought they destroyed—the Grash-Tu-Xem, a race of Old Ones older than any Old Ones except the Elder Old Ones of Ancient Thriss.”
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The idea of freedom is such a nebulous one, isn’t it? Most of the time when angry people are speaking of ‘freedom’ what they are actually asking for is much simpler—respect. Do those in authority or those with power ever really respect those who do not have power?” He paused. “Or do they mean ‘power’ and not ‘freedom.’ Or are they the same …?”
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Elric is a thief who believes himself robbed, a lover who hates love. In short, he cannot be sure of the truth of anything, not even of his own emotions or ambitions.
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I, while the gods laugh, the world’s vortex am; Maelstrom of passions in that hidden sea, Whose waves of all-time lap the coasts of me, And in small compass the dark waters cram.
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-The Long War, por Terry Pratchett y Stephen Baxter.

"(Godzillabytes: Nelson had an irrational dislike of ‘petabytes’, the recognized term for a particular, and particularly large, wodge of data. Anything that sounded like a kitten’s gentle nip just didn’t have the moxie to do the job asked of it. ‘Godzillabytes’, on the other hand, shouted to the world that it was dealing with something very, very big . . . and possibly dangerous.)"
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‘You’re very cynical.’ ‘Joshua, cynicism is the only reasonable response to the antics of humanity. Especially on the Datum.’
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...do the disbelieving, if you know what I mean.’ When he looked up she was smiling, that flagstone-cracking beam of a smile that had always made her look twenty years younger. Agnes’s smile wasn’t the kind of smile that the regular world would associate with the word ‘nun’. It was a smile that had always contained a touch of mischief, and also a terrible rage, kept in check until it was needed. This was what had enabled her to sustain the Home, and her many other projects, in the face of opposition from the Vatican on down. The smile and the rage.
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-Time Enough For Love, por Robert A. Heinlein

All such troubles had however evaporated when he found the local library and discovered a universe of ideas into which his young consciousness rose faster than a Saturn V into the Florida sky.
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...could neither vouch for it nor urge them to buy. Minerva, if I sell a horse, I won’t guarantee that it has a leg on
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...this serenely beautiful young lady was clean as a sterilized scalpel, and was scented with some perfume which may have been named Spnng Breezes but should have been called Justifiable Rape and sold only under doctor’s prescription.
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Half the battle with any culture is knowing its taboos.
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A man never cuts his throat from a sleepless night if he has company to see him through it. ==========

Delusions are often functional. A mother’s opinions about her children’s beauty, intelligence, goodness, et cetera
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What a wonderful world it is that has girls in it!
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It’s amazing how much “mature wisdom” resembles being too tired.
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Your enemy is never a villain in his own eyes. Keep this in mind; it may offer a way to make him your friend. If not, you can kill him without hate-and quickly.
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Cheops’ Law: Nothing ever gets built on schedule or within budget.
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There is only one way to console a widow. But remember the consequences
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Democracy is based on the assumption that a million men are wiser than one man. How’s that again? I missed something.
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What are the facts? Again and again and again-what are the facts? Shun wishful thinking, ignore divine revelation, forget what “the stars foretell,” avoid opinion, care not what the neighbors think, never mind the unguessable “verdict of history”-what are the facts, and to how many decimal places? You pilot always into an unknown future; facts axe your single clue. Get the facts!
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The more you love, the more you can love-and the more intensely you love. Nor is there any limit on how many you can love. If a person had time enough, he could love all of that majority who are decent.
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The most preposterous notion that H. sapiens has ever dreamed up is that the Lord God of Creation, Shaper and Ruler of all the Universes, wants the saccharine adoration of His creatures, can be swayed by their prayers, and becomes petulant if He does not receive this flattery. Yet this absurd fantasy, without a shred of evidence to bolster it, pays all the expenses of the oldest, largest, and least productive Industry in all history.
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Dear, don’t bore him with trivia or burden him with your past mistakes. The happiest way to deal with a man is never to tell him anything he does not need to know.
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Darling, a true lady takes off her dignity with her clothes and does her whorish best. At other times you can be as modest and dignified as your persona requires.
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...was-“liked herself” as Lazarus thought of it- and liking yourself was the necessary first step toward ‘loving other people. She had no guilt feelings because she never did anything that could make her feel guilty. She was unblinkingly honest with herself, was her own self-judge instead of looking to others, did not lie to herself-but lied to others without hesitation when needed for kindness or to get along with rules she had not made and did not respect.
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“Never mind computers. Ira, the most sophisticated machine the human mind can build has in it the limitations of the human mind. Anyone who thinks otherwise does not understand the Second Law of Thermodynamics. I asked for your opinion.”
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“Son, the world doesn’t pay off on a ‘good try.’ Go ahead”
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“Because we needed you, sir.”
“That’s not an ethical reason, just a pragmatic one. The need was not mutual.”
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“Do you mean that, Ira? Or, when the time comes, will you kid yourself that it is really your duty to hang on? If a man has the temperament for power-and you have or you wouldn’t be where you are-he finds it hard to abdicate.”
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Do you think Solomon serviced all his thousand wives? If so, what sort of job did he do on the last one?
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I learned centuries back that there is no privacy in any society crowded enough to need ID’s
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...there’s no virtue in being old, it just takes a long time.
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“Son, one of the few things I’ve learned is that humans hardly ever learn from the experience of others. They learn-when they do, which isn’t often-on their own, the hard way.”
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...age does not bring wisdom. Often it merely changes simple stupidity into arrogant conceit. Its only advantage, so far as I have been able to see, is that it spans change. A young person sees the world as a still picture, immutable. An old person has had his nose rubbed in changes and more changes and still more changes so many times that he knows it is a moving picture, forever changing. He may not like is-probably doesn’t; I don’t-but he knows it’s so, and knowing it is the first step in coping with it.”
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But it’s true that I’ve always watched where I put my feet…and never fought when I could duck out…and when I did have to fight, I always fought dirty. If I had to fight, I wanted him to be dead instead of me. So I tried to arrange it that way. Not luck. Or not much, anyway.” Lazarus blinked thoughtfully. “I’ve never argued with the weather. Once a mob wanted to lynch me. I didn’t try to reason with them; I just put a lot of miles between me and them as fast as I could and never went back there.”
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Never take anybody’s word about whether a gun is loaded.
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That’s what happens when you think about the past: You edit it and rearrange it, make it more tolerable-“
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It’s probably not a fetish. All fetishes are contra-survival, that’s elementary.
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“Gonads from your clone are your own, Lazarus; that’s basic to the theory.”
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The old saw about the early bird just goes to show that the worm should have stayed in bed. I can’t stand people who are smug about how early they get up
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...the ways of God and government and girls are all mysterious, and it is not given to mortal man to understand them.
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May you live as long as you wish and love as long as you live
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Schoolteacher-lost that job when they caught me teaching the kids the raw truth, a capital offense anywhere in the Galaxy.
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“Sorry’? Minerva, my very dear, there is never anything to feel sorry about with love.
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...she set her feet apart, put her hands back of her head, and gave a wiggle that was invented in the Garden of Eden, or perhaps just outside
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In a family argument, if it turns out you are right-apologize at once!
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Yield to temptation; it may not pass your way again.
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Sin lies only in hurting other people unnecessarily. All other “sins” are invented nonsense. (Hurting yourself is not sinful-just stupid.)
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-The Door into the Summer, por Robert A. Heinlein.

But liking cats is hard to fake to a cat person. There are cat people and there are others, more than a majority probably, who “cannot abide a harmless, necessary cat.” If they try to pretend, out of politeness or any reason, it shows, because they don’t understand how to treat cats—and cat protocol is more rigid than that of diplomacy.
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-Have Spacesuit, will Travel, por Robert A. Heinlein.

I was startled but not unbelieving. When you see a rainbow you don’t stop to argue the laws of optics. There it is, in the sky.
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-Sagan Diary, por John Scalzi

I wish I could show these words to you, you who know me only from outward expression. I wish I could fold these words, package them and present them with a flourish, a rare gift I made of myself to you. But these words do not bend—or rather they will not—or perhaps it is that I cannot find the strength to push them through the doors of my mouth and my mind. They are stubborn words and I fear what would happen if I let them go. They stay inside where you cannot come; they are meant for you, but not sent to you. Words fail me and I return the failure.
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I lost some of what I should have been and could have been for you. The parts of me that I lent others who then left me unwillingly or willingly, as they earned the names they had, even as those names lifted up from them, their purpose spent—those which they signified already fading against the violence of bone and metal.
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They took part of me with them. I kept part of them with me, to become me in the fullness of time, some of who I could have been replaced by all that was left of them. If you looked you could have seen them in me: discrete objects breaking down, atoms that would not willingly cohere to the molecule, a colloidal suspension of memory and more than memory; part of me and held within me, bound by names they no longer claimed but becoming me, to be called by my name,
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Let me speak your name. Let me feel the movement of my tongue within my mouth, of lips stretched and jaw pushed slightly forward, of the breath from my lungs shaped and formed into noise and phonemes and syllables and words; into proper nouns signifying you. Two names with marvelous utility: to recall you from memory, to bid for your attention, to speak your identity into the air and in doing so affirm you in your tangible skin, with vibration and waves and exhalation, with the intimacy of sound spoken aloud; with the pleasure that comes from the physical act of declaring you.
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Let me speak your name and in speaking let me sing, a secret melody whose notes rise like birds and fall into your ears, to turn you toward me, with a smile that anticipates your own hidden song that choruses with my name. Let me speak your name so I may hear my name spoken to me from you. You cannot imagine the sensuousness of speech, you who have spoken all your life, you who have mouthed words like bread, a staff of life common on your tongue. You cannot appreciate the luxury speech represents to those of us who have no time for it, we who speed our words, transmitting mind to mind without mediation, not even the briefest pause between mind and mouth to temper what we say or to soften sharp
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