Bifurcación (Intento 2)

– Este sí es sobre ti. –

Los rieles de mi tren han sido cerrados

en caminos ciertamente iterativos.

Me han hecho creer que no tengo motivos

para tener el mapa a mis costados.

Para qué ver trazos en el pergamino

si después de horas de recorrido

reconoces cada trecho del camino?

Así le mentí a todo el mundo,

sé que me he mentido a mí también,

y ya he respondido iracundo

incluso después de contar hasta cien.

Nunca olvidé la manera

como recorrimos la carrilera.

Vía que para ti, já era.

Âmbar

“Well it's been a long time, long time now

since I've seen you smile”

Eu nunca vi uma foto sua de quando era criança... Só sei das historias do coelho que nasceu e morou na toca das cobertas, da pseudorebeldia da sua adolescência. Com frequência imaginava uma versão meio punk que tem batom escuro, unhas pretas e uma cadeia na calça, sentada no banco de um parque perto de casa com algum romance nas mãos. Agora me pergunto se pelo menos às vezes se permitirá essa liberdade.  Tenho uma fina fatia da sua vida que ficará eternamente nas minhas lembranças, um Dorian Gray que faz estragos na minha cabeça, mas que nunca envelhece. Um sorriso gravado na retina, um que nunca mais presenciei. Let’s make a gamble, um de nós aprenderá a mentir, aprenderá a dizer que não confunde o seu sorriso com caramelos, que a curiosidade acabou com as tímidas tentativas de fazer um veste. Eu nunca vi uma foto sua de quando era criança... mas eu vi os seus olhos virar âmbar num espelho uma manhã embaixo do raio do sol.

"Chemical Scum" (or "Room 506")

<<- You know, I never...

I never meant...

- You never mean to hurt anybody…

But you do… >>

And once again it is true. Like Jagger said “old habits die hard”. 

In the escape from room 505 to be at home again, I entered room 506 of Warhol’s Hotel instead. It turns out to be a cold and dark place where nothing makes sense because cameras are held by some lover of randomness who is mainly improvising. “Oh! You know what would be awesome, sync the zoom with that erratic whip… but, oh! It will be better if I do it while I focus that fellow’s mouth. Bad idea… I'll keep zooming like I was doing before”.

You think so fast but with so little background of what you are doing that you end up wandering through winding roads, feeling scummy. You say you never mean to do something and it’s partially true: you don’t mean anything at all, as your actions have no real intentions. There is no voluntary self.

Even your reflexions are responses to innumerable stimuli, mere illusion of reason, happening as a consequence of universe’s history and as purposeless as its evolution. Yes, I am scum. We all are! We are just, in the words of David Deutsch, Chemical Scum; floating in space, an ephemeral configuration of matter that is so complex it has given rise to a virtual representation of reality, the conscious mind. It is Descartes vs Husserl… or Descartes plus Husserl... Anyway, Chemical Scum after all.

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Note: I wrote this back in 2010 while I was remembering some facts of 2009 and was supposed to be published on an empty blog I had created in 2008. For some reason I couldn’t find that blog anymore so I was “forced” to create a new one. The title of this blog was, in some extent, because of the thoughts at the end of the text. I also wanted that this would've been the first post, one that resembles the blog’s style: A total mix of “deep” knowledge, coarsely applied to daily, common, and real (or fictional) situations. But as I never felt it had been truly finished... I postponed its publication.

It originally began without the mention of Room 505 which I decided to include now in an attempt to make it fit better with a semi-fictional storyline.

Sin paraguas

Cientos de mariposas de cristal batían sus alas incesantemente sobre el asfaltado aquel día gris. De efímera existencia, se fundían unas con otras para formar mariposas más pequeñas que se deslizaban por la carretera hacia su irremediable muerte en los desagües. Así se veían las gotas de lluvia que caían sobre el suelo para abrir sus alas y extenderlas sobre el pantalón de aquel joven de vestimenta distraída. "¡Que venga el sol!" decía el muchacho. "Que venga el sol y nos haga volar con microscópicas alas para así encontrar nuevas calles en las que danzar y, por qué no, ojalá al ir al norte, quedar convertidos en sendos copos de nieve, inmortalizados bajo la presión de los restantes siete mil millones, y otros tantos cristalitos, para que juntos formemos un glaciar".