Día 9: I want to be all things in one


You know when you are thinking outside the box, right? You have heard that cliche. So have I. So there needs to be a box. That box is in your head. It’s your brain. You need to step out of your brain. Be an outsider and look at yourself from that perspective. I know. It’s hard. And a metaphor.

But really. That’s what it takes. You need to think it. Everything. And you need to go out of your brain to see it. It’s what duality needs. Another line of thought. One that makes you go higher. All the way up.

You know Inside out too.  The movie. Joy. Sadness. Disgust. Fear. Rage. All those guys. It seems joy has the handle of must buttons in the machine. But really, it takes an epic trip to rewired the system and get the tech guys to come fix you command. So the go outside the box. And live that epic story.

This story takes place for everybody. At our puberty. We become teens. We are no longer at that age, twelve. Thirdteen, Fourteen, Fifthteen, Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. Ahd then you are up. Nobody know when it starts exactly. Nor when it ends. But those years, woman.


I used woman as the old use of man. You know. Everything is backwards now. And you can’t help it. If we all go outside the box, let’s say towards feminism, then, we wil all leave our macho estate of mind. I know: our brain was rewired when joy and sadness came together to play that big epic fall that built a new set of islands systems in my brain. And that’s who we are.


But what if our brain could take another refurbishment prior to the final decay?


That’s what I was searching for. And I just dreamd it. We need to think outside the box all over again. And what’s in the box? Nothing. Nothing worth thinking of. The box is empty. As the outside. You need to think it. Imagination needs to be forced out of the island and take control inside the command center of the brain. Another epic story brought to you by PIXAR.


Only, I don’t want to sell out so fast. I didn’t sell out before. As I am not one of those. I am a free spirit. I fred my mind, and the rest followed. But my peace of mind was still incomplete. So I took a step back and wondered along the edges.


Did you know that journalist in the US, latino, who was a mainstream ankor with reputation, like Josep Cuny or Mónica Terribes for ticatalans, but this time, for latinos. I forget his name. He’s the man with the big questions agains Trump, Peña Nieto, el niño del pan, and  whoever comes along. I know you can picture him. He is just not in mind right now, as I told you, it’s empty. Like the box. Everything is comming back to a new order. Chaos allowed that. It’s the final emergence along the path of complex systems. But now within you.


So about the latino journalist I don’t remember. He was on the top of his game. His background might be mexican. O puertorican. You know, you stereotipical chicano without a clear island in his mind to hold on to the big apple island inside growing to conquer the idea that the final frontier is the American Dream. He was living it. He was a bright professional in a network, Univision, that allowed him to reach the top. And there, on the top of the game, he decided to step off. And he lived as a bum, without telling anybody, for quite some years. His story nobody understood at the time. What happened to him? People trusted his professionalism. Something wasn’t right about a man who goes out to loose everything when he’s been blessed with opportunity. He’s made the American dream all the way to the top. And naa, that wasn’t it.


Ramos, I think. Seriously, I don’t remember. But we don’t let our brains think anymore in this rewiring thing. We don’t allow ourselves to be bored during minutes and  hours trying to remember something that has been lost all of the sudden. Those little blue guys in my brain are putting my balls in the car that will take them to the dumpster when they will never be revived ever again. Jorge Ramos.


That’s it. I think. You see googles fault in this proces. My thought was there wondering around the name. The person was in my mind. And that period of his life. I didn’t read his book.  I followed the news at the time as much as anyone can follow univision for a while. But then that’s it. Those years went by. For Jorge and for me. We never met. But he made it back. And he came back with a vengance. With a sense of purpose. Having lived like the poor live in the capital of the empire. Like a bum in public space. Homeless. The antiamerican dream. Unless you have been to those borroughs of almost any big city in that country. They are still there. The Ramos at run from the American Dream. War veterans wearing their army jacket. It ain’t Vietnam no more. But still. Some wars have come across the next generation. And some will need a new one soon, or the wheel that feeds the American history of pride towards the military will dry forever.


Jorge Ramos. How could I forget. He is only the biggest newsman in New América. I just knew I had him in my brain. Why should I turn to google if I know that eventually I can make him pop back. My brain just needs to go around that place where long term memory keeps the balls Joy, Sadness, Disgust, Fear and Anger send along the day. As it unfolds in real time. The live show. And the rewiring of the game as we are asleep with those mind actors, the director and the crew. Everyday epic. Epic TV. Brain TV. Why go outside the system when you system is still in good shape? Why, anyway, go to google if it’s not always necessary?


To keep going within you own story. To write with a clear mind before that complete thought has been written where it should be. Outside your brain. Writting makes that tast possible. It’s out in the open. No more in your brain on that epic game that’s being played on my fantasy island.


I want to have more islands in my brain. Many more. I want to see a field of islands. Like some paradise place in the caribean coming from the old and dusty world. The old world and the new world. The voyage of a crew of men, and only men, that crossed the Pacific looking for a twited dream this guy with free will thought about. After studying for quite some time, seeing what the technology of shiping allowed him at the time, he proposed to the power men that could finance him the investment needed to built the ships he needed for that quest. The final frontier awaited. During quite a bit of our history as humans, we grew by going to the edge of our limited visions at the time. And some people drew those frontiers farther away. And life grew more complex, and so have our brains.


It’s time we give our new brains a chance. We need more islands in my command. I wan’t to see a see of islands. I want to wired them together as if I was an archipielago. I am an ancient greek common man walking along with a toga and a thing in mind, that thankfully, I can share with somebody along the coastline that can listen and rewire. Feedback. Close the loop.


This new set of islands is coming through. The tech guys came in with a brand new control for it. It’s got in fact less buttons. It might be just a joystick, a key board, screentouch pad, a pen, a computer,  3d glasses, and some unproven new tech that keeps poping in the trial mailbox delivery system. I am a beta tester. Officialy credited. It’s a degree in my new university system. The new environment to bring all the components to this new landscape I am trying to depict.


Everyone thinks about a new Silicon Valley. A place were people from all over the world can come to live. An atmosphere that can fill public space with a new way of coping happily ever after. At the other end of individualism. With no signs of cults we once praised, as this new set of islands allow us to built a higher quest.


Resistance. We are the resistance of the status quo. This is very french. Only they didn’t fight back. You know who did? The Spanish Republicans who came to liberate the city. Even you forgot. They spoke Spanish. Somehow, french monsieurs and madammes, but especially modemoiselles, were expecting american soliders. Not just poor young republican fighters. We didn’t care about their fight. We didn’t care about the neighborg. Still don’t. We are not here to save them. Well, that batalion, armez vous, was there to be the first to show up. Talk about honoring somebody elses culture and nathional anthem. Spanish and French forever bonded with a kiss. A kiss that wants to be revealed to the public with this new gesture: a kiss between Manel Valls and Albert Rivera.


Albert Rivera would go for it. He’s willing to see his epic rise towards a role that can mirror in a french story that ends like Macron. Only, he can play it cool on both sides of the border, except when it comes to TV3. Or the people that make that public service. The workers. The free journalists. He thinks he can clean up the act in this country. He is a reuniter. Only, he still needs an enemy. And his scope is national. So his reform needs to seduce a bigger audience watching: the rest of Spain. And a fighter from within against the Spanish separatist movement is what makes him a political player on this new board of old Spain kingdom. He’s a horsebackriding knight at the doors of Barcelona wiling to fight his own to conquest power, for the right side of history.


Of course that’s bullshit. You never know when fiction is taking place and when free thought is just out there jamming. I must become a rapper in order to give some of this words some useful use within the upcoming youth. They like the rythm of the crowds. Being part of an open society. At public spaces. 15m values. We were out there. Not every night. Those important ones. Even people inside the grid. And all the different souls hanging of the system, about to fall into the pit of collective oblivion.


I was one of those.


My tale comes from afar. It’s not really a local matter. Or global. But both. I don’t want to use glocal to sound like a spook. I can only take the responsability of being the copy of the copy of the copy, as Eduardo Rabasa once twitted. I have inspiration from books. I get stories stolen from authors. I can see where they are coming from and how they have built up characters around a ground that seems familiar. And they have endings and plot. I envy them. I too want to write books. And the readers part… well, I don’t know. I’m willing to connect. I don’t care. It’s a gift if the do. But the idea is to keep writing about the final revolution. And be part of it. As here everyone is in on it. The final play. The final scene. The live tv.


Distopians are having a ball. We can fear all those outcomes as they are about to unfold. But we must at least allow us an island of hope. In that island in our minds, we’ve all come home. We’ve all settled for our own limited ways. We have explored outside our box. And found ourselves more clearly. We watched our island set crumble in to the trash bin of our system and from there a new version of our IO set us inside the completed game of trust. The dual empires. The hability to leap.


So I left.


Now I’m back.


As I have now became aware of what I really want: to be everything, anything, everyone, at once: ALLS.


PD. My love comes out of bed. She says: you remember it’s my saint. Of course I didn’t. I am one of those persons who forget. And somehow I need to balance that. Technology might work. And some sort of new effort to display. Happy day to all the Meritxell in the world, but especially one: you. Love you, dear.

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