Lógica de astros

No es que quiera estar sola:
Es que aun no encuentro a alguien
Que quiera asumir el compromiso
De ser libre a mi lado.

#Acuario que se empieza a sentir en el cielo. Aire para ir a volar entre tanta tierra de pisadas. #Venus entró en #acuario y la #luna también. #capricornio comienza a despedirse del #sol y el paso de la tierra al aire prepara el alma para vincularnos y abrirnos solo ahí donde haya lugar para volar juntos.

De todas las formas del amor,
Yo prefiero la libertad.
Porque amar es abrir y descascarar
Todas juntas las molduras del mundo.
Y es una forma de crear,
Un idioma libertario.
Amo porque soy y sos.
Te amo porque nada me obliga.
Me siento única y me abro,
Cuando vibro la vida sin perímetro,
Cuando me teletransporto a otra galaxia a buscarme,
Cuando invento un color que sin mi no existiría.
Cuando vuelo sin tiempo y sin espacio.
Cuando quiero a mi arte más que a mi misma.
Pero yo no quiero que me esperes para volar,
Yo quiero que subas.
Que encuentres tus propias nubes,
Que nos encontremos de la mano, siempre sueltos,
Que nos amemos saliendo y entrando,<
Que nos busquemos siempre de nuevo,
Que nada esté determinado,
Que renovemos el lazo cósmico,
Toda vez, todo instante,
Que explotemos de amor sin tocarnos,
Que nos toquemos aireados, como viento de jazmines,
Que estemos de a ratos, para siempre,
Cerca o lejos, distantemente juntos.
Yo quiero que me ames por volar.
Yo voy a amarte por eso.
Y quiero estar sola para saber
Cuando quiero y cuando no,
ir a tu nube.
Cuando me vuelvo para pensar
Y cuando me invento sin garantía.
Yo no quiero apegarme para sentir.
Yo quiero amar tu impermanencia,
Y que el cuerpo sea un código más,
De nuestra telepatía de otros mundos.
Quiero amarte batiendo alas.
Y en silencio saber que somos dos,
Y también uno.
Quiero que podamos crear
Con cada cuerda, una armonía
Que nos deje tocar juntos,
Pero libres,
Crear, sentir, animarnos a ser música.

Felíz #luna y #venus en #acuario en tiempo #capricornio.

John Brad Wayne Pitt

In the darkened Quonset hut which served as a theater… while the hot wind blew outside… I first saw John Wayne. Saw the walk, heard the voice. Heard him tell the girl in War of the Wildcats that he would build her a house, “at the bend in the river where the cottonwoods grow."

I tell you this neither in a spirit of self-revelation nor as an exercise in total recall, but simply to demonstrate that when John Wayne rode through my childhood, and very probably through yours, he determined forever the shape of certain of our dreams.

As it happened, I didn't grow up to be the kind of woman who is the heroine in a Western, and although the men I have known have had many virtues and have taken me to live in many places I have come to love, they have never been John Wayne, and they have never taken me to the bend in the river where the cottonwoods grow. Deep in that part of my heart where artificial rain forever falls, that is still the line I want to hear.

Notes on Self-respect

It was a matter of misplaced self-respect.

I lost the conviction that lights would always turn green for me, the pleasant certainty that those rather passive virtues which had won me approval as a child automatically guaranteed me not only Phi Beta Kappa keys but happiness, honour, and the love of a good man (preferably a cross between Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca and one of the Murchisons in a proxy fight); lost a certain touching faith in the totem power of good manners, clean hair, and proven competence on the Stanford-Binet scale.

The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others—who are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation—which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O'Hara, is something that people with courage can do without.

There is a common superstition that "self-respect" is a kind of charm against snakes, something that keeps those who have it locked in some unblighted Eden, out of strange beds, ambivalent conversations, and trouble in general. It does not at all. It has nothing to do with the face of things, but concerns instead a separate peace, a private reconciliation.

In brief, people with self-respect exhibit a certain toughness, a kind of moral nerve; they display what was once called character, a quality which, although approved in the abstract, sometimes loses ground to other, more instantly negotiable virtues.

Nonetheless, character—the willingness to accept responsibility for one's own life—is the source from which self-respect springs.

Again, it is a question of recognizing that anything worth having has its price.

To have that sense of one's intrinsic worth which, for better or for worse, constitutes self-respect, is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent. To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference.

We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gift for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give.

It is the phenomenon sometimes called alienation from self. In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the spectre of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that one's sanity becomes an object of speculation among one's acquaintances. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves—there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.

by JOAN DIDION

Ideas Profundas

Ansío las estrellas

más abocada estoy

a la pecera

Una juventud dedicada a rentabilizar la propia inteligencia, a exprimir como un limón el filón de los estudios y a asegurarse una posición de elite; y luego toda una vida dedicada a preguntare con estupefacción por qué tales esperanzas han dado como fruto una existencia tan vana. La gente cree ansiar y perseguir las estrellas, pero termina como peces de colores en una pecera.

Aparentemente, de vez en cuando, los adultos se toman el tiempo de sentarse a contemplar el desastre de sus vidas. Entonces se lamentan sin comprender y, como moscas que chocan una y otra vez contra el mismo cristal, se inquietan, sufren, se consumen, se afligen y se interrogan sobre el engranaje que los ha conducido allí donde no querían ir. Los más inteligentes llegan incluso a hacer de ello una religión: “¡Ah, la despreciable vanidad de la existencia burguesa!”. Hay cínicos de esta índole que comparten mesa con papá: “¿Que ha sido de nuestros suelos de juventud?”, se preguntan con aire desencantado y satisfecho. Se han desvanecido, y cuan perra es la vida…”

Odio esta falsa lucidez de la edad madura. La verdad es que son como todos los demás: chiquillos que no entienden qué les ha ocurrido y que van de duros cuando, en realidad, tienen ganas de llorar.

Nadie parece haber caído en la cuenta de que si la existencia es absurda, lograr en ella un éxito brillante no tiene más valor que fracasar por completo. Simplemente es más cómodo. O ni siquiera. Creo que la lucidez hace amargo el éxito, mientras que la racionalidad alberga siempre una esperanza.

Uno no imagina la rapidez con la que la gente obstaculiza los proyectos a los que más apego se tiene en nombre de tonterías del estilo de “el sentido de la vida” o “el amor a los hombres”. Ah, y también “el carácter sagrado”.

J'étais né pour l'amour impossible, et le hasard a voulu que je fusses servi par-delà mes souhaits.

- Honoré de Balzac

I could have been a priest instead of a prophet. The priest has a book with the words set out. Old words, known words, words of power. Words that are always on the surface. Words for every occasion. The words work. They do what they’re supposed to do; comfort and discipline. The prophet has no book. The prophet is a voice that cries in the wilderness, full of sounds that do not always set into meaning. The prophets cry out because they are troubled by demons.

-Jeanette Winterston, Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit

Reste

Pas même une heure. / Seulement le temps. / Un temps sans durée, une minute à peine / sans épaisseur, sans temps. / Sauf l’instant.


- Hélène Cixous, Le Nom D’Oedipe : Chant du Corps Interdit (Oedipus’ Name: The Song of the Forbidden Body, my translation)

Le temps de la solitude

Knock, knock. TOC, TOC.

Recibida el día Domingo 02 de julio del 2017 a las 20.05 hs. del número del bicharraco mequetrefe que me terminó gustando más de lo esperado y que se da el lujo de ser más histérico que yo, rechazar invitaciones y ponerme de lo más ansiosa cuando no se reporta.

Kill, kill. Bang, bang.

To read in the morning and at night
My love
Has told me
That he needs me.

That’s whyI take good care of myself
Watch out where I’m going and
Fear that any drop of rain
Might kill me.

To read in the morning and at night by Bertolt Brecht

'Maybe… you’ll fall in love with me all over again.'
'Hell', I said. 'I love you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin me?'
'Yes. I want to ruin you.'
'Good', I said. 'That’s what I want too.'

Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms.

She stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray, then settles herself against him, ear to his chest. She likes to hear his voice this way, as if it begins not in his throat but in his body, like a hum or a growl, or like a voice speaking from deep underground. Like the blood moving from her own heart: a word, a word, a word.

Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin.

She was ready to deny the existence of space and time rather than admit that love might not be eternal.

Simone de Beauvoir

[...]
I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again
[...]

Raw with love by Charles Bukowski

And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.

The journals of Sylvia Plath

Desaparezco por otra semana

Es increíble como necesito de la gente para saberme.
Su compañía me permite aceptar con alegría mi persona.
¿Qué hubiera pasado si Kierkegaard se hubiese sentido hermoso y seductor?

Su silencio. Ahora sé por qué estoy enamorada. Su silencio es la presencia de las cosas, en vez de su representación imaginaria.

I don't suppose I really know you very well - but I know you smell like the delicious damp grass that grows near old walls and that your hands are beautiful opening out of your sleeves and that the back of your head is a mossy sheltered cave when there is trouble in the wind and that my cheek just fits the depression in your shoulder.

Zelda Fitzgerald in a letter to F. Scott Fitzgerald, November 1931

Oh, Godard

[...]
And still the heaven
Of final surfeit is just as far
From the door as ever. What happens between us
Happens in darkness, vanishes
Easy and often as each breath.

Sylvia Plath, Blue Moles