Y sin embargo…
un texto de om ulloa en Penúltimos Días, blog de asuntos cubanos
6.04.2012
ySINembargo
6.02.2012
textsFORnothing
Texts for nothing #4
Samuel Beckett
Where would I go, if I could go, who would I be, if I could be, what would I say, if I had a voice, who says this, saying it's me? Answer simply, someone answer simply. It's the same old stranger as ever, for whom alone accusative I exist, in the pit of my inexistence, of his, of ours, there's a simple answer. It's not with thinking he'll find me, but what is he to do, living and bewildered, yes, living, say what he may. Forget me, know me not, yes, that would be the wisest, none better able than he. Why this sudden affability after such desertion, it's easy to understand, that's what he says, but he doesn't understand. I'm not in his head, nowhere in his old body, and yet I'm there, for him I'm there, with him, hence all the confusion. That should have been enough for him, to have found me absent, but it's not, he wants me there, with a form and a world, like him, in spite of him, me who am everything, like him who is nothing. And when he feels me void of existence it's of his he would have me void, and vice versa, mad, mad, he's mad. The truth is he's looking for me to kill me, to have me dead like him, dead like the living. He knows all that, but it's no help his knowing it, I don't know it, I know nothing. He protests he doesn't reason and does nothing but reason, crooked, as if that could improve matters. He thinks words fail him, he thinks because words fail him he's on his way to my speechlessness, to being speechless with my speechlessness, he would like it to be my fault that words fail him, of course words fail him. He tells his story every five minutes, saying it is not his, there's cleverness for you. He would like it to be my fault that he has no story, of course he has no story, that's no reason for trying to foist one on me. That's how he reasons, wide of the mark, but wide of what mark, answer us that. He has me say things saying it's not me, there's profundity for you, he has me who say nothing say it's not me. All that is truly crass. If at least he would dignify me with the third person, like his other figments, not he, he'll be satisfied with nothing less than me, for his me. When he had me, when he was me, he couldn't get rid of me quick enough, I didn't exist, he couldn't have that, that was no kind of life, of course I didn't exist, any more than he did, of course it was no kind of life, now he has it, his kind of life, let him lose it, if he wants to be in peace, with a bit of luck. His life, what a mine, what a life, he can't have that, you can't fool him, ergo it's not his, it's not him, what a thought, treat him like that, like a vulgar Molloy, a common Malone, those mere mortals, happy mortals, have a heart, land him in that shit, who never stirred, who is none but me, all things considered, and what things, and how considered, he had only to keep out of it. That's how he speaks, this evening, how he has me speak, how he speaks to himself, how I speak, there is only me, this evening, here, on earth, and a voice that makes no sound because it goes towards none, and a head strewn with arms laid down and corpses fighting fresh, and a body, I nearly forgot. This evening, I say this evening, perhaps it's morning. And all these things, what things, all about me, I won't deny them any more, there's no sense in that any more. If it's nature perhaps it's trees and birds, they go together, water and air, so that all may go on, I don t need to know the details, perhaps I'm sitting under a palm. Or it's a room, with furniture, all that's required to make life comfortable, dark, because of the wall outside the window. What am I doing, talking, having my figments talk, it can only be me. Spells of silence too, when I listen, and hear the local sounds, the world sounds, see what an effort I make, to be reasonable. There's my life, why not, it is one, if you like, if you must, I don't say no, this evening. There has to be one, it seems, once there is speech, no need of a story, a story is not compulsory, just a life, that's the mistake I made, one of the mistakes, to have wanted a story for myself, whereas life alone is enough. I'm making progress, it was time, I'll learn to keep my foul mouth shut before I'm done, if nothing foreseen crops up. But he who somehow comes and goes, unaided from place to place, even though nothing happens to him, true, what of him? I stay here, sitting, if I'm sitting, often I feel sitting, sometimes standing, it's one or the other, or lying down, there's another possibility, often I feel lying down, it's one of the three, or kneeling. What counts is to be in the world, the posture is immaterial, so long as one is on earth. To breathe is all that is required, there is no obligation to ramble, or receive company, you may even believe yourself dead on condition you make no bones about it, what more liberal regimen could be imagined, I don't know, I don't imagine. No pomp under such circumstances in saying I am somewhere else, someone else, such as I am I have all I need to hand, for to do what, I don't know, all I have to do, there I am on my own again at last, what a relief that must be. Yes, there are moments, like this moment, when I seem almost restored to the feasible. Then it goes, all goes, and I'm far again, with a far story again, I wait for me afar for my story to begin, to end, and again this voice cannot be mine. That's where I'd go, if I could go, that's who I'd be, if I could be.
5.30.2012
5.29.2012
vividLight
Sydney opera house 'collapses' in spectacular light show--An installation light projection on the Australian landmark makes it look as if its roof crumbles to the ground. The display forms part of the Vivid light and music festival in the New South Wales capital, and is created by the German design company Urbanscreen.
5.28.2012
5.26.2012
5.25.2012
5.24.2012
ilusiÓnÓptica
Diario de Cuba: Mariela Castro en EE UU: La 'mafia cubana' tiene como rehén al pueblo norteamericano ay, qué mala esa mafia mayamensa, Mariela, tú tan clara y yo tan densa.
ay, esa maldita mafia mayamensa disparando a mano llena tantas remesas
a familiares a diestra siniestra, olvidando tantas pasadas ofensas.
ay, Mariela, todos tan hechos hueso y mierda por lo vacío de la despensa,
todos extintos por la constante marcha en pos de la autodefensa
de la soberanía a cambio de un poquito de impuesta tiranía,
de la incipiente economía que nunca llega entre tanta castrocatibía,
ellos siempre alerta contra esa corrupta mafia mayamensa
que critica tanto logro-tanto éxito-fruto de tanto sacrificio de ellos,
de ellos, de los familiares de diestra y siniestra todos presos
--sí, Mariela, presos-- sin canje ni recompensa
inmóviles bajo tanta ruina, muros y bloqueos, y sin embargo…
ay Mariela, tú tan viajera, tú tan libre y ellos tan rehén del obrero edén.
y qué mentirosa esa prensa mayamensa, chica, tan única y obsoleta...
qué reaccionarios esos viejos casimuertos que no perdonan esa mierda,
la gran verdadera mentira que le hizo tu puñetera familia, Mariela.
5.21.2012
DignosLimpiosYvencidos
a los cubañames regatoneros de dientes de oro y camiseticas apretadas abrazados a sus jevitas de mezclilla spándex y licras celulíticas que por todo miami hoy reclaman y aguajean --por no recaer otra vez solo en hialeah-- los veo pasar desde mi esquina petrificada de mitad esto y lo otro sin ser nada, yo como ellos fragmento de cubanos dignos limpios y vencidos y no...no son ellos peores que los asustados batistianos con calovales y bigotico de los 60 que se movían perdidos en medio de aquellos otros cubanos dignos limpios y vencidos
ni que los exaltados soldaditos de plomo fango y budweiser que se arrastraban por los everglades en los 70 a metros de otros cubanos dignos limpios y vencidos
ni que los criminales tatuados y desdentados que con lujuria nos miraban adolescentes en cayo hueso en el 80 en medio de muchos cubanos dignos limpios y vencidos
ni que los desesperados balseros mitad educados alumnos del fraude de los 90 entre tantos otros cubanos dignos limpios y vencidos
ni que los gusanos rojos que nunca extienden sus alas de mariposa libre desde el 2000 en medio de tantos cubanos dignos limpios y vencidos
ni que las vedettes sin brillo que van y vienen, van y nunca se quedan ni aquí ni allá desde el 2010 en medio de aquellos otros tantos cubanos dignos limpios y vencidos
y esa es la verdad me digo con frialdad de olvido mientras camino entre las calles de un miami ido burbuja que se fue y nunca ha de volver ni camuflado de aquella otra grande y colonial con ínfulas de ser punto centro de una américa continente ni tampoco de balneario de cartón palma coral y dinero de papel con ínfulas de ser puente intersección de un continuo presente ausente tanto en medio de aquella Habana y de aquel Miami que ya no volverán colmadas ambas de muertos y vivos las dos quedarán mitad esto mitad lo otro entre tantos y tantos otros cubanos aquellos y nosotros
dignos limpios y vencidos
© om ulloa
5.20.2012
HabanaMuda>dramabaneroDELhombreNuevo
para celebrar en grande otro aniversario de nuestra gloriosa "independencia"...
Habana Muda - Chino, a deaf working class husband and father trying to support his mute wife and two young children in Havana while maintaining an open relationship with a financially supportive gay lover living abroad in Mexico.
más aquí
5.19.2012
jesus&freddie
seen at Daryl CAGLE´s cartoon blog
"I asked Mr. Fish to write up his thoughts about the cartoon, and here’s what he had to say:
The cartoon was drawn in reaction to the vote in North Carolina approving a constitutional ban on same sex marriage. It took me a full day to work through my rage before figuring out the cartoon.
Like so many other progressive cartoonists, my initial instinct was to attack all Southerns in the United States and to classify them as backwoods hicks crippled by a history marred by prejudice and intolerance and legislative buffoonery. Not wanting to join the chorus of such vitriol, though I didn’t find it at all disagreeable, I decided to illustrate the hypocrisy that I heard when listening to those in support of the ban who insisted that their decision was Biblically motivated.
While I don’t believe in the Gospel and think that the subjective nature of Scripture allows for innumerable interpretations and conflicting readings, I do appreciate the historical significance of there having been a big-mouthed radical hell-raiser named Jesus Christ living in Bronze Age Palestine who got in trouble with the political and religious elite for saying that the poor and the sick and the homeless and the misunderstood minorities and the unjustly vilified riffraff were NOT worthless human beings.
It seemed to me that such a committed revolutionary thinker, if presented with contemporary culture, might tend towards acceptance of our glorious differences as human beings rather than condemnation."
5.17.2012
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