Publicado el

People frightened of silence

Moo Pak ins and out

I’m walking along with this book like a walk in a park with a conversationalist. I’m steping in and out cause I need to come back to it, and then I feel the rush of comming here to write. It’s an exercise I’ve been forced to do by the fact that I cannot jot down a single scribble on the pages, as I am used to, because the book is borrowed. I need to give it back, eventually, as I got it. And it is in impecable conditions.

Nobody imposed this on me. I did. It’s always you who drive things around. In or out. It’s all in your head anyway. And you categorize the exercise. You make it happen so we understand the feeling of where this system is going. The personal system you own set of microcomponents, soul, body and shit… make up for. You are a complete social ecosystem. Yet, you still are just on your own, among the masses of an interconnected society.

So for quite some days I’ve had this urge to go back to Moo Pak to write about this. Silence. Solitude. Being with yourself. But as it turns out, the book has this beautiful constant voice that keeps talking and walking, and there is no stopping. It’s a single thread of a thought that connects logically with the next, and so on, and so forth. Sudenly, I don’t feel alone.

I do the same. This is how I write. No matter the intention. I just show up and start. And I’ve become obsessed with this. It’s time with myself. Alone. In silence. Just meeting the point of interconnectivity with my fingertips, my voice, unheard, within my head. Does anybody knows where this is going? No. And that’s no problem.

The problem is I leave map from Donosti to as a page marker. It’s a bit chunky but it does the job. It does less damage than leaving a pen, which I will avoid doing in this case, as I would like to spill ink, or some shit like that. You know that’s always a chance. Specially with a borrowed item. You are constantly on the verge of messing up. I know. We all know. It’s the pressure of staying consistant, and logical, and sane. We fool ourselves to stay on the game. And it’s there, a little bit on the edge, glancing at the scene.

In any case, what I was trying to say is that every time I go back to that point in the book where I last left my reading, I need to be able to go back to the point where Woo Pak left that last intense message I needed to come back to. To make a point. To deliver this other thought. Writers do that. I’ve heard them say it when they show up in that other state of mind you get yourself into when you are speaking for an audience. And then you are no longer a writer, but also an entertainer. Publicly addressing crowds, sometimes even larger than 9 people.

So when I go back to read I’m not in the page where the last message that signal my writing spirit erupted, so I need to go back to the last two or three pages, in order to get back in track with a stream of consciousness. So I do. And then I wonder what I was looking for. For everything turns out to be truth. Slightly more intense in places I hadn’t wondered upon. And I keep going back, maybe, to find what my past reading found that now is eluding me. And I wonder if I put then, on this second reading, the Donosti map a page earlier than the last time I read, because I’d be already signaling the place where I needed to come back to, to write, not to keep reading.

So you see, Woo Pak becomes like this pleasent conversion of time. I can move back and forth this stream, as time should allow to do, for any given timeline. But we are always so focused on going forward, we sometimes disregard the fact that time also has that negative ride: backwards.

And this also why I don’t feel alone anymore. I found a place in which I can excercise this going back. And I am enjoying myself. In this silent mode. Everytime Woo Pak kicks me out of that book, and into this one.

I keep reading back and back and get entangled with that direction of the book. And I’m already hooked. I’m back to the point that I last wrote about. About typing in a computer or typing in a typewriter. As an exercise to rewrite a single page. Over and over. Until you have cleaned it up. Something I never do. As write directly on the cloud. And almos never edit. Which is my own little purgatory.

It’s the sense of writing. The interconection with reading. How they are both there. The silences. Of the book. But also of this other time: the writing one. Even if it is closer to something you may relate to, like reading a post. Or like reading an actual book. Just to organize your time around something physical. Not just a screen. A real human interaction. I also write on paper. It nos just gives me pleasure, it also sits on a different table than writing on the computer or right into the page with an Olivetti. I used to own a typewritter. Not anymore.

The labour of scribes and editors and printers and proof-readers, [ ] Because of the work of these dedicated people, he says, we can now pick up the words of singular men and women and read them and listen to them and question them and live with them in greater intimacy than we do with our own spouses or partners. For a persona like myself, he says, with no country and no language to call his own, a life without Sophocles and Dante and Donne and Stevens would be intolerable.

Gabriel Jsopivici, Moo Pak

In fact I came into this writing exercise today to speak about the silence in books. The silence in writing. The intimacy of being alright with yourself. How writing and reading is part of it. How the author is aligned with Proust about the kind of special silence books have. And I’ve gone back too far back, to point out he craft of those who rescued the ancient voices of the past. Others burned books and libraries. Entire cultures. Washed away and mistreated by our current western ways, disregarding our infliction of damage in this bluring effect.

The most terrible thing that has happen to people today, he says, is that they have grown frightened ofsilence. Instead of seeking it as a friend and as a source of renewal they now try in every way they can to shut it out.

Gabriel Jsopivici, Moo Pak

This is has grown worst nowadays. Silence is not there anymore. Everyone’s got some source of continuos distraction in the mobile phone. It’s not even a complete song. It’s a message to keep you hooked to a short spasm of blabering. Something intense as pill, or distractful enough to catch your attention. We are switcing channels all the time. Endlessly. Which leaves no space for silence. And that’s not just a thing to miss, but also the source of being alright with yourself. No matter what. Books, silence, writting, it’s all part of the source of inmense power we have refill ourselves. We can bring it up as a routine to heal. Walks. To the mountain. Walks with a friend, with different kinds of friends, to align and talk, and to share the silences in between.

ALLS

Publicado el

Between the 45th and the 47th president

This is an era of disruptive mechanisms to establish who shouts the loudests, and who used the IA tools in the best way to drive transformation and change in our society. It’s not clear. It’s not entirely out there, but the capacity of minorities to drive some doubtful and unproven evidence to the mainstream has turn the seek for truth in a distorted gullible everchanging scene.

It’s like a morphing meme.

Life has taken a turn. And we are riding a wave we don’t control. So the hidden forces has taken a stand and have looked for mechanisms to empower what they believe is most holly. To try to make it happen… for them. A new collective of desperate middle class has erupted with anger and dispear and has taken the lead and command in following the natural-born NEW leader.

This distopic scenario has been also the same sort of thing I’ve been dealing with along the path to understand we are at in this ever-changing world. And the character of that crazy candidate that comes from the raging force of societal cry against the machine used to be a feeling of some people, artist, dreamers, who were fighting to say something that was going against the flow of tides. And from that erupts an emergent field and force. And this takes over. For good.

That seems to have happened with the scenario of Don J. Trumb (like J. as Homer J. Simpson, if we must find a valid reference… everyman) comming back to the number one job at the top of the power ladder in the social scene that has been established in the risk board game we are all watching unfold. The regular players are sitting on the table. The forgotten ones are listening in, without a voice. There might be eight players in there, and their alliances, their similarities, their sinergies, their strategic partnerships, their codepencies, their histories, their commonwealth, their trade relationships, their common ancestors, the common culture, the common law, the kinds of governance, the royal families, the paradoxes. But there lies a ninth seat empty at the table. This is the only space left for us to take a stand. And I wasn’t ready for it, until now.

I’m not going to watch the American entretainment that this NEW american campaign has unleashed, one more time, for us to witness without a vote. The relationship of that executive body will lead to many experimental scenarios where those new people in charge will deal with the way in which the oldest democratic experiment is put to the test of withstanding a balancing act of checks and ballances that are to be ruled by a holy emperor who’s been send by God, according to his fellowship of whisperers and ballot validators.

Will the USA institutional system withstand after four more years of the Trump era. The setting the scene for a radical act is already going to happen as yet another entertainment show that is going to unleash the deamons that have some interconnection with the movilizing of resources and funds that come from highest debt generator since the gold-backed system turn the world around the printing money scheme that supports the modern economic theory of the last 60-80 years. Keynes vs Friedman. But the new set of people in charge are not that kind of theoriest. They are the Bannon-era of Cambridge analytica turn into the perfect gathering machine of a massive movement. This exercise, as Bannon intended yet back in the day, is intended to find the allies in external systems, in order to influence elections and restore leaderships. Something in the line of Russia’s hackers introducing fake-news in other peoples elections. It’s now mainstreamed. And people are already raging on it. Russia is already made a move in fueling the war economy to shaken the options of enemies and allies in terms of a response. This fuels the war economy and those who benefit from it, and also puts presure on the energy business, creating yet even greater havoc into people lives: everthing becomes more expensive.

So we are about to witness some geopolitical movements that will reshape some frontiers and some priorities in how we defend ourselves (always military budgets going up). De-escalation of violence is going to take yet another act of threat: we’ll take piece along the promise of some sort of giving up. Renouncination time. Some of our liberties and hopes. And we are going to move our red lines as well as our values as well as our frontiers. The enemy is always close by. The scape goat. The alibi.

If the world is going to move somewhere in the following four years, my guess is that it should move ortogonally in the direction where the given dimentions of our collective understanding have allowed up to now. The revolts in MAGA, the far right movements, the Arab Spring, Indigandos, the Catalan independentist, the Occupy Wall street, the 8M,… name any given sudden burst of revolution, is not nearly enough to find the common ground for an understanding. Now the situation is not equitable in each case. The actors and history. The violence is not equally distributed. The war on terror somehow shifted the scene into the new wars after COVID: Israel genocide in Gaza, and Russia invasion in Ukraine. The starting point are in the results from the WWII, a NEW state, a balancing act on how to repair the atrocities committed by the Nazis during the holocaust, and sionist dream of coming back home, as stated in an ancient tale. Because God said so. The ever-present man.

Where are thou?

Hear my son.

Here.

ALLS

Publicado el

Starting point

You are where you are. Life has brought you here. That’s the kind of thing everyone, anyone realle, a coach, an influencer, your spouse, your guru, your spiritual leader, your priest, your own private phisopher, your third eye, … would tell you: focus on the moment.

Now is the time.

There’s no other time.

You know about the past, about the future, how they don’t really exist. And then you are stuck with the moment. And the moment is gone. It just shifted. Like these words apearing in front of me.

Reading; writting.

It’s an act of connecting the fingers (in case you are typing), your mind, and the «paper». Or the screen, really. In this new version of the narrative scene.

Short and without derivatives.

I often speak too much. And loose the audience. Not really my thing to be concise and to the point. I don’t just play short and to the foot. I like risk. I elaborate plans. And then execute them. But if you don’t have your team with you. It’s worthless. You are on your own. And nobody is listening. You are just playing for a lame vacuum in your narrow limited story you tell yourself. That’s not the game. It’s your obsession.

Order and adventure

Aparently on day Jorge Luis Borges said that literature was order and adventure. Later, Cesar Luis Menotti repurpuse the idea and said that football was exactly that: order and aventure. Too much order, nothing happens. To much adventure, chaos.

A third derivative of that concept could be apply to impact-driven innovation adoption. What does that mean? Well intaking innovation that actually help to transform the system in a way that represents a higher value for the common good. I know, I know, I’ve lost you a bit. Bear with me. I believe that tha these type of innovation is also oder and adventure.

  • Too much order is not disruptive enough, not quick enough, not meaningful enough. Systems resist to change, if there is still a reward for the ones holding the cards. They would have no desire to move from that position.
  • Too much adventure, it just becomes a messy «I must jump into this bandwagon» by all means, regardless of the value or the direction I want to go to. You then generate some movement, but might jus be spinning in circles. Not quite moving.

So to drive truly meaningful transformational societal change, we must first share a vision of where all these things should be going. And to that, we are often faced with a bigger scale above within our role, as humans or as part of any given institution, that is being played in higher hierarchy. A higher dimention. So too much order is just helping the resistance to change to back up the status quo, while too much adventure is just helping the noise level to rise. How may impact-driven innovation then flourish among these two counter forces: with a proper mix of order and adventure.

This is true for the entrepeneur world and for the the demand-side actors who are willing to make an attempt to drive transformational change to their innovation ecosystem. With demand-driven innovation (pull), these two worlds end up meeting halfway. Conversely, business-driven innovation (push) may also find its way to undertand this as yet another meaningful arena to drive their impact as well as their ROI.

This is the starting point.

NAW is the time.

Let’s start a NEW journey.

Let’s implement our very own theory of change.

ALLS

Publicado el

Humour is my nation… or rather my identity

«The trouble with Nietzsche, he says, which is also the trouble with Benjamin, is that deep down they are so very German».

Moo Pak, Gabriel Josipovici.

Jack Toledano excuses himself right away with a disclaimer: «I can say that, he says, because my favourite artists are German, or nearly all». It’s always risky to go after a generalization like that. It’s a dangerous game to play. The more risk you take, the higher the stakes. Specially when you are ready to digg deep into other peoples cultures, which is always complex if you have not made the effort to understand them to some degree. What I’m trying to say is that for one person to take that road, they either have an alaby, a hidden as under the sleeve, that allow those very words to be spoken without sparking a big battle. Nationalisms are fire crackers with a bunch of teenage matches trying to proove themselves in the fulfillment of the mass.

Jack Toledano, and Josipovici himself, are well read and knowledgable about which authors and artist from the German culture they would like to take a laugh with. And explicitely mentiones that what makes them so German is their lack of humour. Or the lack of putting themselves in the center of the joke, to be joked about by the rest of the gang. The sense of cultural formality, that each of us brings from our own personal experience, from home, schooling, and our own consumption of our very own little culture, and nothing else. That’s the raw cultural element of self-fullfiled individual. My culture is all I need. And the rest, well…

But it’s not the case here. Some names a dropped: Klee, while Swiss, he’s from the German culture. However, he’s been excused himself, not for being Swiss, which made be as well classified in the same «dullness», but rather because he’s said to have a lightness of touch, a sense of humour, and the ability to see his own absurdity. This was not the case of Nietzsche nor Benjamin, and even less of Goethe or Thomas Mann.

So you see: in order to take a chance of categorizing other culture, you must at least require to understand how to catalogue the expressions of art and culture from his own representative voices. This means to have read them. Probably, if you truly would like your joke to slip by as an insider’s wise crack, you need to speak and read the language. Of course, you may intend to mimick those who have such cultura leverage to address their own wittiness, but that would be a fool’s choice as you would be rapidly disarmed and bare naked in front of mob of people taking a poke at your very own national hero’s, in the best case scenario, intelectually, and in the worst one, with some masculine physicality and the same sort of arrogance your initial pulse helped to set lamest kind of mood.

But at the end, we’re somehow condemened by our own cultura biases. And we have not all drank from the same fountains.

Moo Pak considers the characters to bring to the table a little bit of the witty sense of humour that still represents the English vis a vis it’s American cousins. And this trait represent a difference with Germans, or even the Spaniards. And all of them could be linked with the sort of moral structure derived from the religion. Our cultura heritage. Our own personal cross.

«Today the English still pride themselves on their sense of humour, he says, but in truth there are now few more humourless and sentimental people than the English. Their Puritan legacy weighs heavily upon them, he says, as the Protestant legacy lays heavily on the Germans and thier Catholic legacy weighs heavily on the Austrians and the Spaniards».

The legacy of Puratanism and Protestants as central common legacy to the American Colonies NEW culture, as compared to the Catholic legacy in NEW spain, back in the day, as an instrument embeded into the colonialist expansions of these cultures in the XV-XX centuries. It’s there, and it’s also there in terms that go beyond the sense of humour, or lack of it of. It’s complicated, we know. But this expression of cultural segmentation brings us to the capacity to analyse ourselves taking into consideration our own personal and collective limitations. «By and large, he says, peoples are a disaster and only individuals are worth thingking about».

That’s the thing. Not just the prejudice and judgment of peoples will always lead us into slipery soil, but it will always reconstruct some sort of stereotypical face of our collectives that might reflect something about our legacy, but that does not represent entirely who we are. This individual disparities and peculiarities are the liberating stories on how we’ve come to read Socrates, nowadays, as if by a sort of miracle, and that each of these cultural legacies have provided some literature that has been able to represent the teaching that through books, stories, narratives, are able to express the global interconection among people, among cultures, among our selves.

From here or there, I reading and understanding of cultural references as: in the Protestant team, Goethe, Milton, Kant, Hegel, George Eliot, and van Gogh. Catholics, such Dante, Langlands, Evelyn Waugh and Muriel Spark. Sophocles, Aristophanes or Socrates. Donne, Stevens.

Still we find the notion of what’s behind these voices in the capacity to find the common link from their human perspective, as close to what we have intended to liver our lives. And this where humour plays a role. We want to laugh with people that we can walk with, and expand the joke to the best possible scenario for an everlasting laugh. This to me is what we are driven towards.

Humour, and laughter. As a choice. As an instinct. As cultural legacy. It’s still there to shine through. It remains a trait for the future. A holy grail to chase. Just because you may also go by life a little lighter if you may squeeze a giggle here and there.

Publicado el

About a thought

«Whenever we thing of thought, he says, we have before our eyes the image of Rodin’s Thinker, sitting immense and solitary with his great wise head in his great wise hand and gazing deep into himself.»

Moo Pak, Gabriel Josipovici

It’s certainly relevant. A thought. It’s as good as it gets. The inception of new idea. The consolidation of an inspiring new thought, there passing by for the first time in our human experience. And somehow magical.

But Moo Pak nails it, whether the narrator of the writer, or the universal connection between them, and us, plain readers of someone else’s thought. «It does not need Gilbert Ryle, he says, to show us that this image ins only and image of what those who have never had a thought in thier lives imagine the process of thinking to be».

That’s it. It’s not that at all. It’s not really there. Not the precise image, but rather what we hav socially simplify of what should be a very natural development for any human being.

«There is no such a thing as a pure thought, he says, there is only a sudden sharp intuition, a stirring of the blood, which you have to coax into shape, into words».

Precisely. It’s a scavenger hunt that you have not been prepared for. But you have trained yourself to capture them. To coax them into words. As a matter of life or death. The death of deepness in that thought, that if you are not able to recover, it will never be. It’s a dark road filled with intention and failure. «Most of the time you do not succeed. Either you cannot find the words or you find the words but they are not the right words for the feeling you have had».

But he idea is that sometimes when you are hit with one of those moments and actually nail it down to words, the feeling becomes complete: bigger than itself, as well as than yourself.

Such clarity to define the robust and simply nature of a thought. But from a precise persepctive. It’s not that the image of thought of the Thinker is vague, or that he goes out for a walk with a fried to thinkg. Or to come up with thoughts. He does it to talk. To talk and walk. And that has some rules on its own. A common set of rules that you share with the person you walk with, and his own context, problems, and circumstances. No script. No landmark. Just walk. Street. Life. What’s in your head. What’s become of you. What’s in the air?

And that links the two spaces in one. I mean Moo Pak. The idea of thought, as it emerges. But rather the relevance of walking with a friend, talking. That’s the deal. But not only. It’s when you go back to your desk, and you find yourself once again in the solitude of the alchemist producing the mixture of words to define the text that pursues the clarity, the brevity, the spotonness of the ideas, that now, become vividly connected with where we were before that walk. We need to be in places that await for us to link them with their sense of higher being. The final destination. The essence of a thought.

Walk, talk and desk. It’s about the written experience of that solitude, once you’ve done the letting go, the active listening, the silence-sharing, and the harmonizing beats of every step along the ride. And it’s also about aknowledging those places. About nourishing the spirits. Searching for the time to meet, to walk. And talk. In a sensible way friends fill in the time to let you be. And to listen. And to build from there. Whatever fulfills us. Whatever help we need. It’s all there.

Yet, the homework awaits.

You must come back.

A find the place. The time. The desk. And write.

Like this.

Like that.

ALLS

Publicado el

I’m one of those fools

«We have all known instances of would-be writers who spend all their time talking and produce nothing»

Moo Pak, Gabriel Josipovici

I’ve beginning to wonder where this is going to take me. Every sentence I read, every sentence that blows me away. And one more time: guilty as charged. That’s exactly what I am: a would-be writer.

Nobody had ever defined me with such clarity. Except maybe Milena Busquets. She once told me the story of another would-be writer who never ended up writing anything. Nothing. Nothing at all. Even though everybody expected him to write something magnificent. Aparently he spoke all the ideas out loud in clever conversations that fade away into the night. And nobody picked them up. His name: Clotas.

He did build himself a reputation as one of Jorge Herralde’s close circle of judges who would give away every year the famous Anagrama Award. Or the Herralde award. Either one, he was always one of the readers who would decide. So he was deep into the literary world, but just never with his own set of words. Clotas is my kind of man: the ultimate would-be writer.

Ever since Milena describe him/me I know I’m one of those. I thought of looking him up and get to ask him if he had any regrets from his would-be writing ideas. Maybe there would be some that would still find its way to a reader. Maybe a documentary of that kind would make me less of a would-be writer, and more of a would-be documentalist. Another trait of mine.

Nowadays it’s not fine to try to be a Renaissance man. In fact, it does not qualify as anything as heteropatriarchy is failing all us, no matter our upbringing. It’s all a big trap, and we’re already stuck at the spider web. It’s a matter of dimentions. And a matter of time. Time’s ticking, and my would-be creations are rotting away in pages of notebooks that will never see the light.

Unless I begin to explore them, and make something out of them.

This is what I need: to become a would-be editor of my own expectations.

Golman, would-be futbolartist.

ALLS

Publicado el

Renacer un día como hoy

Hoy vuelvo a nacer. Otra vuelta al sol.

Desde hace tiempo llevo dándole vueltas a lo que implica cada ciclo vital. Y estamos llenos de cíclos por todos lados, así como también estamos rodeados de trampas en el solitario que nos quitan la atención de lo que verdaderamente requiere nuestra ateción. Y así cada día.

Lo que vivimos colectivamente como una apertura a una sociedad interconectada nos ha cambiado a todos, de una manera global, sin que tengamos dispuesto un sistema que amortice lo que dicha transición implica. Las transiciones energética, digital, demográfica, migratoria, capitalista, extractiva, individualista… todas al mismo tiempo. Y nosotros, sin saber muy bien si nos toca opinar, declinar, dejarse llevar o renunciar.

El estado de ánimo particular se asemeja al estado de ánimo colectivo. Y a pesar de todo, lo que lleva a los adolescentes a tener una perspectiva más esperanzadora es seguir a los que les va bien, según lo pueden legitimar ellos mismos con los mensajes optimistas de los «ganadores» que tienen delante. El juego del dinero y de la vida que se despliega delante de sus ojos según los pocos mandamientos que les plantean los influencers a una sociedad pegada a un espectáculo en continuo movimiento.

Esto quizás era de esperar. Quizás llevamos ya tiempo en esta rueda de ratón. Yo especialmente. Y debo conseguir salir de una ve por todas para voltear de nuevo hacia otra destinación. Este es el estímulo de lo que considero necesario aportar a mi rutina. El llamado más allá de cumplir con un horario y con unas tareas que justifican el que me hayan contratado para el trabajo que realizo. Pero ¿a quién beneficia lo que hago? Esta es una de las cosas que siempre he tenido claro, y que nunca he sabido trasladar del todo, a aquellos por los que mi voluntad de romper con los dogmas preestablecidos se obsesiona con conjurar a un llamado colectivo: Tico Commons.

El Tico Commons es mi anillo, mi elixir de la juventud, el gran grial, el tesoro, la tierra prometida. Es un concepto repetido en la narrativa mitológica y literaria, que ha descrito mil veces la gesta de un héroe, generalmente un hombre, a romper con todo para llegar a la transformación del sistema en el que se encontraba sumido. Y sí, esta vez, inevitablemente por una involuntaria subjetividad, el héroe me lo guardo para el intérprete que quiero representar yo en la película que finalmente abra las puertas de este apocalipsis.

Mi viaje ha tenido varias complicaciones, varios niveles de aprendizaje y varias formulaciones fallidas. Están dispuestas delante de mi como un ejemplo a seguir para revertir aquello que no funcionó y reflejar aquello que en cambio dio algún fruto. El éxito de la cometida está también en la obsesión de seguir un camino que hace tiempo que tracé para mí: el futbolarte.

El futbolarte no es otra cosa que la fusión de dos mundos que aparentemente no tienen nada que ver. Y también es la formulación de una manera de asistir a una narrativa que me permite ponerme en el centro de una tensión literaria a la que nadie nunca ha prestado la atención que le doy yo al nombrarla. No se trata de una extravagancia simplemente para tener un momento en foco de su atenta lectura, sino más bien la noción de que debemos llevar a nuestro terreno la historia que nos hace irrepetibles. Y esta, con toda humildad, es la mía.

No es fácil salir del cascarón, pero esta vez ya no hay vuelta atrás. O más bien, por llevarme la contraria (que es uno de mis ejercicios favoritos), irá justamente hacia atrás. Cambiaré la dirección del tiempo y me refugiaré en los sitios y remilgos que en su día escribí para que un futuro yo recuperara, elaborara, y diera sentido a lo que es su momento, en el instante de la creación, dio luz a un despertar sin igual. El lector designado para ese trabajo soy yo. Quizás usted considerará que es una simple relectura, pero es que usted no ha visto mis libretas, ni leído mis metaestructuras Perecnianas, ni mi soliloquios al estilo de una caminata de Moo Pak.

Hasta ahora, que yo mismo doy el paso a la relectura. Hasta que por fin doy el salto a la edición de mis escritos. A la conclusión de algo que empezó en su momento, y que hasta ahora pretendo cerrar. Se acabó la búsqueda. Comienza el bootstraping.

Publicado el

Starting at the top of the page

When I write I just let go of myself. I see the stuff coming out of the screen as if it is something that’s just been produced by an electric interaction among the components of my brain. And in a way, that’s what’s happening. But in a more deeper way, what’s going on here is a connection of the immediacy that occurs among the fingertips of my hands, working like a pianist composes, to come out with a sentence, a word, or an entire paragraph, that somehow tells my story.

I’ve just encounter a way to move forward by showing up to places and interacting with people that could allow me to produce a further essence of the next step in my creative process. I need to force the entry to the places I know I have to show up to. And they are not going to come to me if I don’t knock out the walls that I’ve paved so close around my confort zone that my moving out towards the place of action is not quite occuring by yet another pause. Action takes a move. Even if it’s a slow move, but in the right direction, that could be all I need. Day by day.

I’ve had this force driven me before. Like in any given moment in which I’ve set out myself to define a campaign of any kind. I’ve worked around my own personal campaign. For any given election. For any given «selling point». For any given project. And there is too much noise already in the surroundings to pay attention to yet another fool. But that’s the case for all of us. That’s the cas for any given soul, who’s trying to come out of the shell, and cry out to the world: «listen to this«.

It’s not listen to me.

It’s this.

It’s the form of you tought. The complexity or simplicity of the way in which the story is being exposed. The ancient art of showing up. With something worth reading. Something worth digging. Something that builds up a wish-to-go-somewhere-else.

I’m constantly moving. And hiding. I’ve been hiding from myself, my pathway, and my inevitable fall. I’ve been delaying the confrontation with that other moment of dealing with the reactions towards my expression: doubt, fear, anger, joy, laughter, pity, ressonance, dispear, anxiety, revolution, meh,…

It’s a game of reflections, shadows, mirrors and deceit. And among all those different spectrums, there is something laying thin among the substance of how it’s all interconnected. It’s that complex framework, the lines that connect the different aparently unrelated states what moves me to continue to explore. I’ve been exploring for so long, and now I need to convince myself to reinterpret the time and the things that I’ve written, expressed, doodled, in so many as 999 places, where the essence of myself was able to break the lock that kept me hid. It’s this second time around the one that counts. It’s this time, through this effort, where I will find the balance of my field. The nature of this NEW me.

NEW us.

NEWUS.

NEWME.

NEWI.

NEWAI.

I’ve been playing along in a different dimention. I’m ready to connect back with my previous self. And go beyond both places, to an orthogonal direction: NEW.

Publicado el

Vamos a empezar… otra vez

Este lugar no es más que un eterno retorno. Siempre vuelvo con la misma expectativa de organizarme y relanzar la oportunidad de salir. Y de ver qué pasa. Y luego no salgo. No pasa nada.

No pasa nada.

Es decir, que tampoco pasa nada si no pasa nada.

Es lo que los que nos ponemos excusas pensamos. Y de alguna manera tenemos razón. Se trata sólo de una autocensura. Un lugar común. Un pretexto eterno. La voluntad de no-ser.

¿Ser o no-ser?

Y elegimos no-ser.

Y no pasa nada.

Pero nada de nada.

Y lo que queríamos ser se queda mirándo de reojo. Como queriendo decir algo. Como sabiendo que es un engaño. Que todo es un engaño. Incluido esto. Una distracción de mago para que nada pase. Y quedarnos tan tranquilos. Dentro de nuestro plan b.

Y el plan b no deja de ser un sitio cómodo. Un sitio que siempre cuesta mantener. Porque también estuvimos sumidos en el plan c, d, e y f. Y no pintaban bien. Fueron caídas duras que forjaron caracter. Y que nos llevaron a discutir con nuestra propia existencia el por qué de las cosas. Y lo que hicimos mal. Y lo que hiciste mal. Tú.

Por mi culpa, por mi culpa, por mi gran culpa.

Y todo vuelve a empezar.

Pero en otro momento decidí que esto no iba a ser así. Iba a a transcurrir en otro tipo de escenario. En otro tipo de actitud. Con otro plan. En otra estructura… o debo decir metaestructura. Soy un arquitecte de arquetipos. Y desde aquí voy creando carcasas vacías que pretendo rellenar, en un primer momento, con un traje a medida. Una especie de Iron Man, ahora que todo tiene que tener un símil militarista-marvelista. Vaya, he caído en la trampa.

En realidad estamos hablando de una narrativa del héroe. Nada nuevo entre todo el cúmulo de historias y estructuras que te promueven los que crearon la manera de contar historias. Y lo que nos hemos acostumbrado a ver. Y de lo que quería hacer a tener que conformarme con la estructura de las masas para la creación light… paso.

Mejor no hacer nada.

Y seguir en el continuum de la vida.

Viendo pasar el tiempo.

En la pasividad de quién se dirige al mundo desde el sofá.

Y no pasa nada.

Y desde aquí las cosas se ven mejor/peor que hace un momento. Y nada tiene que ver con quién soy o lo que hice por adoptar otra postura. Una fuera de este sitio en el que vivo enjaulado. Quizás es mi manera de exponer una situación particular. Una manera de ser en otra dimensión. Un impulso por promover otra cosa más grande de lo que hasta ahora se nos había ocurrido. Megalomanía al servicio de la comunidad.

Ya estamos. Me estoy poniendo trampas en el camino. Para tropezarme y burlarme de mi. Mientras nadie más rie. Nadie más se da cuenta. A nadie más le interesa. Es ese flujo de ideas inconexas que perdieron al auditorio en el primer desvio. Divagaciones trampa.

Yo me fui encontrando en medio de esas divagaciones. Es un poco como el amigo imaginario de Joy en Inside Out, la primera. La segunda todavía no la he visto. Está claro que hay metaestructuras mentales que interactuan dentro de la maquinaria de impulsos, shocks electricos y departamentos en el sistema complejo que se encierra dentro del craneo de cada invidividuo. Ahora mismo el mio se ha puesta a trabajar en este sentido, y nadie tiene el control de lo que aquí está sucediendo. El tren del pensamiento mental está saltándo a la pantalla. Y lo puedo leer yo, porque también lo escribo. Este triple salto mortal. Y de esto algo queda grabado en algún sitio. Pero ya en forma de texto. Esto ya es otra cosa a lo que era yo al principio de este ejercicio de presentarse a escribir.

Y de este lugar he hecho mi casa. Y de aquí no he pasado. Pero el ejercicio de ser lo que escribo está reflejado en el historial de llegar aquí y desatar este truco de magia: escribir.

Hay un punto posterior: compartir. Difundir. Pensar que alguien más podría perderse por aquí. Que aquí hay algo más que un tipo perdido en medio de una tormenta que se arremolina hacia interiores oscuros nunca antes explorados. No necesito estado de consciencia alterada para encontrar un hilo conductor que no vaya a ninguna parte. Es ya parte de lo que soy. Caos.

El límite del caos presenta una noción a contrapelo. El sentido más sublime se encuntra en medio de esta maraña de interacciones. Hemos pasado a un nivel posterior de consciencia. Y este es el camino en el que voy a desborme a mi mismo en un plano temporal que vaya en dos direcciones: atrás y adelante.

Els desdoblamiento de uno mismo en dos direcciones. La primera dualidad. Dejar de ser uno… y dualizarse frente al espejo.

Pasado, futuro.

El presente no existe. Se me acaba de escapar. Y lo persigo otra vez. El tiempo en sí es una trampa, a la que volvemos sin cesar.

No hay más tiempo para divagaciones ni excusas.

Estamos en la puerta de oráculo.

Tenemos la palabra de acceso.

ALLS

El oráculo abre los ojos. Ya estamos dentro.

Publicado el

¿Dónde estoy?

Estoy aquí. Recién nacido. O más bien, acabado de despertar.

A veces es suficiente ser tras haber dormido. Alguito. Un poquito. O todo lo que podríamos haber desconectado en unas circunstancias normales de sueño. En un día cualquiera.

Hoy es uno de esos día. También es un día especial que está a punto de nacer. ¿Es acaso este el día en el que por fin todo se desenmaraña?

Amplificar el efecto de lo que hacemos, y conseguir llegar al valor social de lo que anhelamos. Colectivamente. Desde una perspectiva de transformación asumible. A partir de un juego. A partir de un nuevo juego de rol.

Yo soy el rol-maker.

O al menos el que construye la narrativa.

Pero, ¿de qué juego? Ni yo se.

El mio es muy personal.

Es mi juego social.

Mi juego personal.

Mi razón de ser/estar.

En este contexto me juego todo.

Y desde aquí debo desbordar la frontera de contenerme para no salirme del propio cauce que transporta mis aguas mentales.

En medio de la tormenta, mi sentimiento en este momento sigue siendo de gratitud, de haber pasado lo peor, de tener que asumir estar en el contexto de un estado de consciencia más próximo al que en su día se sembró cerca de la raison d’être que me fue revelada. He descubierto el último velo. Y de pronto estoy dentro de quién verdaderamente soy.

Los tiempos de mi narrativa y los del tiempo mismo se comienzan a entrelazar. Al fin de cuentas son nueve dimensiones que se entrelazan en un elemento primordial de mi propio porvenir. No puedo dejar de pensar que el camino que sigo va encaminado al caminar que condiciona la distancia que proyecta mi zancada. Lo más que puedo hacer es mantener las piernas en forma, seguir pedaleando, trasladando el ejercicio de mi entrenamiento a un nivel distinto al de la ejecución de mi puesta en escena. Es así, estando en dos sitios a la vez, y en varias dimensiones intercontectadas por mi propia tiranía, lo que finalmente converge en el ser que un día será lo que mi personaje evolucione en cada uno de sus multiversos particulares.

Ticataluña es especial, quizás porque mana del Tico Commons. Pero esto no es posible desvelarlo sin crear polémica en un mundo dualizado. Sólo se puede asumir si podemos prevenir que lo que aquí está pasando sea matizado por el cantar eterno de un ritmo caribeño que viene del más allá.

La capital de toda esta sinfonía es un isla, o más bien un islote, en el que los habitantes son de otra especie. Su nombre: Guayabo. La ilusión de un sitio que en circunstancias mediterráneas estaría desbordado por la masiva llegada de turistas en piraguas que han alquilado desde el puerto. En cambio, en el imaginario ticatalán, Guayabo se presenta como el eje fundamental entre lo que un día fue, más allá de nuestros días, a lo que acontenció en el continente que ahora llamamos nuevo, sin ruborizarnos, como si antes de aquello viviéramos (inclusive usted mismo, hoy, al pensar como usted piensa) en un mundo de tan sólo dos dimensiones; en una tierra plana.

La visión de Guayabo sólo puede visualizarse en la pintura del maestro don Isiodro Con Won. Su destello nos proyecta como elemento sagrado de una configuración que no está en el sitio en el que debería estar, sino en el su proyección más allá de nuestro status quo, en dirección ortogonal, conecta nuestra luz con la que emana de la consciencia multiversal de los mundos que conectan el arte de don Isidro con el mio.

ALLS