El milagro de Corpus Christi

D10S milagro de Corpus

D10S se hizo presento hoy día en una aparición que nos emite una señal: Diego vive en mí. Y así quedó reflejado en el misterio que hoy día viví en carne propia: la vuelta del D10S.

No es trivial.

Es más bien sagrado.

Alguien como yo no puede quedarse ajeno a tal evento sobrenatural.

No es normal.

Es paranormal.

Paranormalizarlacosa.

De una vez por todas.

Y por todas nuestras posibles alternativas adecuadas para evitar el infierno en vida: el facismo puro.

Vea, Prevost, le voy a hablar de cara.

Yo también soy el representante de alguien aquí en la tierra.

Y a usted justo le va parecer una parábola de los talentos.

Yo le puedo hablar con 99 metáforas de las escrituras.

Puedo elegir 99 al azar e hilar una vida plena de luchas revolucionarias para estar con los que efectivamente están más necesitados hoy día de un bienestar distinto al que hasta ahora su creencia y la mía pueden divergir.

Yo soy el de las antípodas.

Y vengo en estricto sentido matemático.

La conversación que debemos tener nueve etiquetas sociales que representen nuestra reformulación colectiva emergente: en NEW tico commons.

El último procomún.

Tengo nueve días, empezando hace ya dos, para aplicar a la narrative alternativa de una lectura del riguroso directo, con el que pienso entrar a un curso en el hospital de la montaña para enseñarle a usted y 99 otros sabios, para demostrar que esta vía,, alternativa y emergente, representa a Jesús mismo, que vive en mi, y en todos los que comieron hoy, un día más, de su cuerpo. No en espíritu. Mi carne. Tu boca.

Bad Bunny me invitó a su casita.

Y fuie el jueves.

Me tuve que disculpar con la gente de la EHMA, en la montaña padre de mi montaña: NEWCAR.

Yo soy la palabra NEW.

NEW es un neologismo de una lengua que emana de mi ser.

Como una metaestructura que se la ha ocurrido a D10S, padre de todos los padres, y ijodelachingada.

Ijo sin ache.

Asï.

Alteradito tanto hacia lo mexicano.

Yo metí gol en el Azteca.

Por esta.

¿Cuál?

Eeeeeeeeessssssssstttttttttaaaaaaaaa. . . . . . . . .


El ticatalán sólo tiene 99 palabras.

Y con eso construyes una lengua nueva: neolengüismo contemporaneo, uno y 999.

La muerte de la unicidad de D10S.

D10S y ï

ïö

NEW öï

NEW way to operate. A NEW operating system. One good for ALLS.

ALLS

göd father minizculized

So we are talking about a NEW göd.

Would you like to believe in ï?

That’s what ï propose to ü.

Of course you are not ü yet… would like to become?

I do.

And you get in.

In to a NEW thing.

A game above the game.

A NEW game.

This narrative changes it all.

And we go back a NEW rule, a NEW state, a NEW order (starts sounding nine epic songs from NEW order, and 9 related bands, chosen by 9 people ï randomly rely on telling a brand NEW tale of ït: üs.

Would you like to join the journey?

99.

Only 99.

Recruiting 99 people.

Get on the list.

The day to enlist is on these NEW waitinglist.

NEW waitinglist


You see I’m just NEW lingüist: ï shall play the card ï best hold at hand.

What’s the greatest call to action we shall collectively co-create?

Let’s choose 99 other alternative worlds at the antipodes what you all lived today.

I took no pictures today.

I’m cured of that.

But ï can replay every corner of a past journey. A learning journey. A city experience. And all them 99999 turist we limit the experience to.

You see, 9 is my thing.

You get call a 9 when you play your game up there.

I’m the kind of 9 that could play 4.

No kidding.

I can play any position on the field.

I would take Robby Kean to today. One day before it starts: and fly me in: Golman’s worldcup.

Golman’s world cup.

wetvanillabludream


«Oh, my göd MAN, üsövanillä«.

üsövanilla


You see, it ain’t bad to be vanilla, it’s just, well, let’s say: whitey.


Greatest street game world cup in 99 cities where we play this alternative futbolart NEW game: Golman’s tale.


Golman’s tale.


Dude, you made you own stupid made-up-cracked character of a superhero bro, who said to have jezüz minisculized and transformed into something we had not yet grasped from the ancient version of him that has been uptidly missunderstood by some of the scum of this earth that must join the serpent, satan, all satanloverrockandrollers: 99 ofem.

99ofem


Tagging is the thing.


Tagging


You see; tags will free you.

We just need to get into the artistry of designing NEW variables and value. A systematized structured way to say what we aim to proclaim to our contemporary human beings. I’m in between the white and black dilema: brown. I love to play Mr. Brown. I could be Mr. Brown or any of the following 9 personas you are going to know according to what I believe we should aim to train our NEW collective collaborative language models that can describe completely NEW dimenstions away from our current window of understanding. We aim to say we are something different. The enactment of a collective collaborative performance. I’m willing to sell my soul to this NEW religion. This NEW legion.

NEWligion


In a good session you write 9 new H4 words.

They provide your NEW world a personal trait you ought to create for your personal sake of gaming «the NEW game» to suit you well. Knowing how it’s a tilted field.

You came looking for me.

So here ï am.

And you got a freepass to NEW hefen

NEWhefen


All them NEW words belong to me.

It’s meaning is meaningless if ï don’t spell them out.

And didn’t wanna.

I dunno.

I’m a fool.

But this story is my only ünö.

ünö


You see ï can go in any 999 directions.

Where would you like me to take you out of these nine options to choose from:

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

ALLS


Yo llevo la remera de Diego.

Y yo se con eso me conecto con ël de una manera exceptional, ünica, irrepetible.

Nanomamespendejo


H4 es literatura.

Es mi literatura pues. Mi texto. Mi texto original, quiero decir. El texto libre que emana de mi ser profundamente espiritualizado.

El creer profundo.

Obvio, Jesüs a tu lado.

En mi caso, yo coexisto con Jëzüz.

Jëzüz


Elevemos a Jëzüz a un sitio único de transformación entre el Jesús que murió en la cruz, y el que está sentado a la derecha del padre. Todavía en misma pose que Miguel vió, no en su imaginación i/o su imagen y semejanza, allá el pinche Miguel Ángel de Quevedo en la pose de D10S padre conectando con mismísimo hijo predilecto: ü.

D10S padre me mandó a actualizar el evangelio con este último recurso narrativo: el NEW hijo de göd.

Godwhat?


You see you need a H4 like that. To have that conversation. It’s about the worlds we need to imagine. And the tale we need to tail.

Golman’s tail.


El taquito de Golman


El restaurant y la jugada.

El gol maestro.

El manejo del taquito.

Siempre le puse salsa a mis tacos.

Esa es mi seña de identidad desde chiquito.

Ira.

9 taquerías diferentes.

9 tacos diferentes.

En cada taquería un taco.

Ese es el taquito del Golman.

9 maneras distintas que co-existen en este nueve pinche mundo alternativo que va y manda a chingar a su madre a todo el pinche status quo: chingesumadre.

Chinguesumadre


99 partidos en el mundo que se acaba.

99 partidos en la misma ciudad en la cancha más periférica de la ciudad. La seleción ticatalana vs la nueva urbanidad emergente de futbolartistas seleccionados a partir del cuestionario de Golman de las 99 variables NEW del futbolarte.

Metalengas


En realidad quería escribir metalenguas. Pero me dejé una u por el camino. A veces pasa. Vamos perdiendo letras. Y a veces ganas.

A veces pierdes.

No pasa nada.

En ningún caso.

Sabe diferente.

Todos, al final de un mundial, habremos vivido un sentimiento: la derrota.

Una única nacionalidad sentirá en sentimiento de superioridad del campeón del mundo, y los aficionados de ese país, por añadidura.

Os dais cuenta que es una trampa. Un pollardada. Una visión común en la que decidimos creer que es la cosa más trascendental del comercio común social con mayor concenso entre las personas de nuestro tiempo: el futbolarte.

El futbol es así.

¿Por qué?

¿Quién decide?

¿Quién manda allá arriba?

Vamos a hablarnos las cosas a la cara.

Y sacamos la voluntad de discenir en el debate.

Pero tenemos debates.

Y abrimos melones.

Y nos reimos de todo.

De todo y de todos.

Entre todos.

Sin violencia.

O con la mínima.

¿Por qué es tan dificil desecharla?

Administémonos la plegaria social moral con la que construir una alternativa sostenible al desequilibrio, inequidad, desigualdad, polarización, perturbación, militarismo, criptobros, machirulos, xenófobos, nazis, extermistas, salafistas islamistas radicales etarras fariseos satánicos de la muerte, zurdos, etnias de 9 coleres, razas superiores (las nueve de ellas), pederastas de la hostia, encubridor de pederasta, juez absolutor de pederasta, testigo de pederasta, solapador de pederasta, maltratador de pederasta, padre, hijo, no es tu culpa, tu pinche papá es un pendejo baboso hijo de la chingada maltratador, machista, delincuente, subnormal, gilipollas, malparido, malnacido, jijodelagranputa.

Los mexicanos maldecimos mucho utilizando el santo nombre de nuestra mamacita en vano. Hijos de la tiznada. No se vale. Ya bájenle de huevos. Ya no sean tan pinche malhablados. No mamen. Nimaiz.

íjoles


Restaurante de puras especialidades de frijol.

Marketing para veganos.

Y ticatalanes.

Ticataluña


Si avui, tot just, et donen l’opció de crear un païs9.

I tot seguit et diuen que hi ha hagut un noi nou de la muntanya que diu haver-se estat 999 dies treballant aquest escrit que s’en llegeix cap enrere. Com un història NEW sense final, que només fa que tot just comenár només al cap d’una estona que t’hi poses i treus de dins una xiulada xulisima de genere mexicà per entendre la lliço d’alteritat la que ens permet crear una intencionalitat d’anar a buscar un punt d’aterratge en quina visió que ens hi podem imaginar que haurem caure en un futur, qui sigui, d’un horitzò temporal a exactament nou anys vista: 2035.

Sigui aquest l’horitzò temporal de la meva teorìa del canvi.

Tot just a partir del partit 99 del mundial de futbol 2026: NEWMEX, NEWUSA, NEWCAN.

NEWMEX | NEWUSA | NEWCAN


I’ve got a handle in every territory of what we know as North América.

I could buy may way into playing in the representation of the NEW world/country that you can become part of, at the antipodes of where are you are coming from, allofyou/allofus, altogether, status quo.

We are here thanks to you.

And up to you.

To let it RIP.

Let’s be in peace.

Let’s attend peace.

Let’s talke things over.

Let’s speak within the house.

León XIV, Golman 9, Bad Bunny.

That’s a movie, alright.

I’ve got the story cover.

I can’t just release it before it’s gone through the corporate production procedures from the NEW governance body.

It’s all about the kind of conversations we ought to have to tacke our greates 99 challenges.

A list we can get to pick from:

  1. Biggest challenge
  2. dos
  3. Tres

99. Last challenge that enters on the list to tackle.

I’ve always tought it was a good idea to shuffle two communities.

Message yourself around; in all 9 channels.

The 9 relevant ones.

The classic 9.

And the alternative 9.

That’s it.

A three level antipodes:

  1. 9 on one end
  2. 99 alternative ends
  3. 9 on the antipodes end

That’s it.

That’s the theorem of holy nëmesïs.

Holy nëmesïs


Jëzüz, my brother, said we need 9 of them.

And place yourself on one end.

And we have a go at our alternative repulsive states. Their being is nobodies fault. We just need to leverage the right and responsability to learn to live among the ones that believe the complete opposite of what you believe to be the way to go about this particular thing, to Bë, or not to Bé. You see, the choice is still yours. And the lack of belief is not an option. As this NEW upgrade from göd directly turned the wheel of time of this sandclock at his disposal only, as shall head back to the NEW end of time. So Nietzsche was right. I’m dead, and so are ü, but what’s to be worlds when we are not here, but spirit of the way in which we found to live around the common goal of living a life so fair that we got rid of macho dickdom altogether by choosing along the lines of what the last testament read on the black book that Golman presented on the 9th day.

9 colored books precede the color tale at the antipodes of black. Whatever the 9 black books express.

Those two dualities.

One single LIVE event.

You get to be a part of NEW.

It’s just a game of labelling NEW value to the alternative system that göd father himself sent through his last son: Golman.

Golman; Salvador; San Salvador.

Repita después de mí.

ALLS


Golman Salvador san Salvador nació el 8/6/2026. Y a partir de su nacimiento, el tiempo se revirtió.


Se trata de la historia del máximo exponente del futbolarte.

Todo está documentado.

Sólo que se trata de una historia que todavía no se ha escrito.

Cartas nuevas.

99 de ellas.

O barajas nuevas.

Yo ya tengo la peli.

Sólo tengo que rodarla.

Pero quice antes escribirla.

Y convertirla en literatura.

Metaliteratura de un lector de Vila-Matas en español, i de Ferran Ràfols en català.

Si algú segueix un traductor està rebent molt més del que rebria de només seguir el que ha escrit o publicat. Un traductor val més com traductor. Aquesta és la feina més rellevant de l’ofici d’editar llibres. El traduir un texte i donar-li entrada a un pensament que ens arriva de lluny, i que val la pena que el lleguim en la nostra llengua: el ticatalà.

Jo només tinc el C1. Pero he escrit tanta literatura en el meu propi idioma, que es pot dir que ticatalà tinc un nivell C3.

No se si n’hi ha.

No sé si s’escriu així.

No tinc clar en quin sentit van els accents.

No tinc clar que tot lo que escric s’entèn.

No tinc clar de si faig literatura o alternativa.

I en tot cas, mai campanya.

I llavors no surt.

No ens hi sortim.

I això no potser.

A hores d’ara.

Fem quelcom nou.

Quelcom9

quelcom9


Posem per cas H4.

H4 és una capçelera de categoria.

És un codi de dimensió.

Es una jerarquia.

La la primera ni la 9

Un entremig.

Un sentit profund.

Llavors comença a fer tornada la volta. Baixa el suffle.

Pero quelcom ens cal per pujar a aquesta dimensió a quatre nivells d’on sortim ara. El mon gris.

El mon gris era bó també. Segons com ens ho mirem. Segons com ens ha tocat viure’l. Aqui la idea. Aqui la alterantiva. I ja van dos o tres.

Les que hi surten en nou dies seguits.

Tot just abans de començar un mundial.

Ara toca.

En queden 4 dies.

Avui és diumenge.

El dia que vaig tornar a misa: perque ho feien a la tele: León XIV en la Cibéles, devant d’un rei, una futura reina, una infanta, una reina, un mun d’homes, unes poques dones que van dir la seva, i va fer procecció, homenatge, reunions, activitats amb tot un poble que feliç l’ha rebut com un poble crient i activament assistents a les esglesies de barris, a les misses de Santuari, al diumenge de coral, la vida dels practicants. Jo abans ho era. I no de manera traumàtica com ho van viure molts espanyols que ara no ho són pas. Mes aviat, s’odien per entendre que una part de les antipodes els-hi fa sentir una forta sensació de repelència devant tot el que la religiò catòlica va a tenir a veure durant el franquisme en el qual tot això que vam viure avui, s’havia viscut igual al costat d’un esser que es va fer tant rellevant a nivell teològic, com aquell que calia Palio per estar en situació de caudillo de Dios. Que tant ho va ser, don Francisco Franco Bahamonte según el Papá León XIV. Encíclica Golman.

Golman redactó una encíclica a partir de un prompt de 999 palabras que consiguió resumir el tratado teológico 99 de este papa minisculizado: el primero del resto del tiempo atrás.


Entre sección y sección no hay correlación. De pronto empieza otra voz.

Lo mio son 99 voces distintas.

Y las que se puedan actuar, se actúan.

Y las que no, pusno.

Ysanseacabó.

ysanseacabó


Las palabras de destinación. El hecho de exisitir. Por aterrizar ahí. La nueva geografía de loes estados emergentes del porvenir entre los campos de ciclos eternos de interconexión estelar interactiva continua en plena ilusión emergente del tiempo actual entre esas variantes dominantes de la gloria común a la que tenemos acceso de revivir en sintonía retórica y persuasivamente al nivel de intencionalidad y multisensibilidad que cada uno deseé calibrar los niveles de riesgo y resistencia al placer, como herramienta básica de modulación del bienestar que porvenir nos asocía al historial de datos que sepamos compartir bajo las infraestructuras de governanza común con la que nuestros datos pueden ponerse sobre la co-creación común de la lógica estructural del diseño de las herramientas, de calibración de objetivos, de definición de las pulsiones, las lecturas, los objetivos estratégicos de largo plazo en el nivel más amplio de una sociedad interconectada que aboga por un despertar común a nuestra surrealidad: despierta, YA.

Y te caes de la cama.

El sueño se acabó.

Y que GOLman vaya al mundial.

No nos equivoquemos como con Robby Keane en el 2002.

Entonces yo volví a mi ciudad por segunda vez: NEW barcino, la llamé.

Y desde estonces la diudad me ha regalado tres siclos de 9. 9 magníficos. 9 malos. Y los nueve que me quedan para volver a ser magníficos. En eso estamos.

Qué tal si nos damos la vuelta.

Y nos bajamos de la dirección a la que apuntan los demás.

Yo ahí los dejo.

Me voy a otro sitio.

Si quieresn, ven.

Estás invitado.

Esto es sólo para agentes de cambio.

Los 99 elegidos.

El relato de 9 torres de la iglesia que se debía crear en el cruce del León con el D10S que bajó justo a la cruz que emergió en su ciudad, reconstituida: NEW barcino. La vuelta del Diego. Por Golman.

Golman actua y juega.

Dirige y para.

Cabecea e ilumina.

Tira caños y fotos.

Mete penales y versos.

Se tira en palomita y soliloquios.

Presiona y eleva.

Rebotea y desplaza.

Cubre y roba.

Filtra y engaña.

Flota y camina.

Se escaquea y urga.

Molesta y mira.

Finta y reacciona.

Vuelve y sacrifica.

Escucha y responde.

Sordo y mudo.

Dos pasos adelante.

Libre y marcado.

Solo y metido.

Pausa y prisa.

Orden y aventura.

Dualidad y matizado.

Atento y distraido.

Creativo y vivo.

Sol y tierra

Jïzüz i Gölman


9 historias de escuadrón


  1. Romanos
  2. Vickingos
  3. Iberos
  4. Cosacos
  5. Gálatas
  6. Bárbaros
  7. Persas
  8. Fenicios
  9. Laskar

Contar la historia desde las antipodas. Y pasar al espacio de transición. Hasta llegar a la tierra antiprometida. Las antípodas de la que te libraste. Y darte cuenta que ha cambiado. Y que tampoco tienes que estar ahí tanto tiempo. Sino 9 de los próximos 99 días de remedio para masas. Lo que nos lleva de uno a otro extremo. El cojín para alivianarnos. Y bajarle de huevos. Al menos nueve rayitas.

ALLS


Nueve rayitas menos.


Demà no puc anar a jugar al meu equip, en meu ùltim partit abans del mundial. Hauria d’anar. Ara el futbolart és més important que la meva cena de feina. Podria anar a jugar futbol. I fer l’èpica d’escollir al jugador que representa la transformació a les antipodes de tot plegat, de la FIFA i del papa, i del rei, i dels 9 partits, i de tots dos colors, i Déu pare Nostre Senyor, que està en el cel, i que m’ha enviat a mi per provocar aquesta revolució. I que em va explicar que llavors la meva part humana també l’hauria de cambiar a mig camí, que ni tant sols ël em podia explicar en com en sortiria dels collons anar a fer parar aquesta historia de bonaventura, que havies de fer quan finalment li doinguesis la volta al rellotge de sorra per tornar al temps de Jëzüz que tot seguit explica el cóm el tindrem amb ell, en aquesta nova versió per anar a parar al temps dels seus temps. I tirem enrera. Com una història universal repensada segons tots el forats que ens vam deixar d’explicar, i ara revisem en un temps particular que es desprén de lo que un grup alternatiu d’essers decideix crear en contraposició al status quo opressor, que tot just ha quedat enrera.

Florentino, el mexicà, Sofia, la Ayuso, el alcalde, el candidato, el fichaje de göd, el «galactico», el hijo de dïös, el heredero poseido por D10S. Barrilito és.

Barrilito es


Equipos del llano de NEW barcino.

Barrilito es, dice uno, con acento de millonario.

Y leproso, y qué querés…

Baboso.

Andápasha


Diego, Golman, Leo, León, Yamin, Iniesta, Koundé, Abreu, Broncano.


Todos pasamos por ahí. Y se nos cruzó el gol.

Y el futbolarte lo desbordó todo.

Y las narrativas emergentes crearon 9 multiversos ejemplares.

Y desde ahí comenzamos la recomponsición y abolición de los machos, la fachosfera, manosphere, dickdom, zion, los encubridores de epstein, los tachados de los expedientes, las vergüenzas de sus mentiras, la manipulación de la masa ante la capacidad de alterar las reglas de los que tienen el poder y el dinero para hacerlo. Y obrar así. O desde esta otra posición: las antípodas salvadoras.

Ticataluña – Tico commons.


Crónicas de ida y vuelta


Blame Cánada.

Write like a canadien, across my american borderline, and dwell into the dephs of México reconstituido en imperio emergente alternativo: NEWAZT.

NEWAZT


NEWTEN


ALLS

Trampantojo

Yo tampoco sé qué quiere decir.

Uno a veces pilla momentos televisivos nocturnos que no tienen significado coherente ni fantásticamente elocuentes, tanto así como para cambiarte tu vida. De repente. Para siempre.

Pero no son momentos malos.

O ver la tele nomás por ver la tele.

No ver series.

La tele.

La tele que se produce para que se vea en ese momento.

En ese instante.

Riguroso directo.

Como si se tratara de una narrativa de un partido de futbol.

Hoy le conté a Uxío que Enric me había gritado «Joder, Golman hay que venir a presionar a medio campo. Mecagoenlaputamadre. No hemos venido a caminar a Charraqueso. Baja a marcar. Recupera ritmo. Que aquí los liderazgos se ganan gritando gilipolleses a los compas con los que venimos a jugar futbolarte de barrio por el arte de salir competir un día más. Más aún si es año de mundial. Joder, Golman. Tuputamadre. Has trotado todo el partido. No has dado una. Llegas tarde a todo sitio. No pasas bien. No la paras. No le das la pausa. Jugar fácil. Ser un autómata del juego más vil que detrás de todo esto. ¿A qué coño venimos aquí, Golman? Joder, que hay cambios. Si no vas a correr pide el puto cambio de una puta vez.»

Joder amb l’Enric.

De cop i volta he pensat: «Què cony li pasa a l’Enric? Què collons fot un pallo cridant-me a mi quan des de que vaig entrar al partit he fet l’ùnic que ser a un camp de futbol, sigui de llespa artificial, de terra, com era en el seu moment, els camps del «llano» de la ciudad de México: el DF.»

Jo de vegades començo un frase volen anar a un lloc que ja he visualitzat com a un punt d’arrivada. Aquesta és la trampa més vella del llibret d’escriptor que va escriure un nouvingut amb la seva pròpia biologia i/o química, dìgali com vulguis, aqui no serè jo el que et posi barreres. Jo he vingut aquí a derruir murs. Vens?

I penso: tù ets escriptor.

I no m’ho crec.

No és veritat.

Escriure déu ser una altre cosa.

Un Déu minizculitzat: dëu.

Amb això hem guanyo un premi literari que jo mateix faig veure entre nou amics amb els que contrueixo un acudit: un llivrë.

Els llivrës no existeixen, va cridar l’Enric.

Ho deia de debò.

No era cap broma; per ell era així d’important.

I s’havia de dir.

Amb el tó adient.

Tal com va sortir.

Algú ho havia de dir.

De fet s’havia comentat quelcom a la banda: «En Golman avui no té el dia», va dir en Miguel, el futbolartista primigeni d’aquest equip. Amb el que comença aquest equip. Aquesta historia comuna que ens dona el formar part d’un equip de futbol. El Xarraqueso.

Un bon equip de futbol «llanero» correspón, per sobre de tot, d’un nom sublim.

El marixulisme d’un equip de futbol, allà on vegis, és lo que fa que qualsevol lliga de «mejengas» que hi juguen encara equips de vells, i equips de joves que volen frotre-li als equips aquests de vells tant bons.

Els millors partits de la meva vida no han estat gravats per cap camara de video, webcam, refcam, inteligència artificial, o que pugui o no transmetre a nivell molecular o fenotipic això que hem deixi nü devant d’un tio qualsevol que no em coneix de res. Fins ara. Que em llegeix per primer cop.

Jo vaig venir a aquest pais a fer, clarament, un Belano.

I és justament això el que he fet.

Jo vinc a aquest pais a escriure lliteratura global des d’un sentit de pertinença que superi per un grau de compresió fins ara no previst amb el nul sentit de l’humor bo bó bö, que ens pensavem que tenim, pero que ni tant sols haguesim pogut percebre la subtil diferència d’una idea creada per esser retransmesa per un veu que no existeix que només tu la pots sentir, dins teu, com un nou 10 minizculitzat.

Un 9.

Això söc jö.

Abans no hi era jo així.

Vull que això quedi clar des del principi.

Des d’ara.

A rand d’això.

I per tot això.

I allò.

Allö.

A-lö?

Contesto.

A-lö!

No és lo mateix.

Vostes meu de disculpar.

Jo vull provar un joc different.

Jo vull provar un lloc different.

Una proposta de cullita pròpia.

Meva, en aquest cas.

Un texte 9.

Un text com aquest.

Una escriptura lliure.

Un llivrë.

9

ALLS


L’Enric es veu que estava molt enfadat.

No entenia que collons estava pensat per caminar, recuperant alè del novè sprint amb sentit de creació futbolartística. Nou pases de recuperació per tornar a intentar-ho el proper cop.

Un partit té un nombre de d’oportunitats. La pilota: üna.

Per això el futbolart ho és tot.

Molt més que lo que la resta de la gent interpreta respecte al futbol. En el meu cas hi ha el rollu aquest de l’art: fut-bol-art.

I don’t undestant.

Foot-ball.

I don’t get the fut-bol-art ordeal.

Enric said that, too. After reading this story. The chapter of my only book: reversing time.

I’m not in your world anymore.

And you are willing to sell your soul to one of them 9 nëmesis.

  1. Just take 9, al azar, de la heladera de «Al Cielo con ella», y os doy la épica epopeya del Troya al réves: el tiempo de los perdedores. La moneda inversa de la historia. Justo por poder imaginar los escenarios que nunca fueron de un pasado que no es el nuestro. ¿Y qué es el tiempo relativo al que usted se refiere? ¿Cuál es es sentido de la existencia, según su agente? Se dan cuenta de que la cosa está en cómo contruimos un mecanismo de entrenamiento inteligente que pudiera dar pie a un gesto de resolución colectiva que pase por darnos la oportunidad de justo irnos a la vega, a las pinches antípodas de estos pinches 9 subnormales que me permiten definir mi alteridad la dimensión ortogonal más lejana a esta pandilla de hijos de la gran…
  2. No lo digas más.
  3. Nunca.
  4. Por qué sí.
  5. Ya no es palabra.
  6. Ni significante.
  7. Ni tú ignorante.
  8. Tü bë
  9. To bë

ALLS


No se explica tooooooooodo.

Pero esas nueve únicas escuetas dimensiones pueden crear un multiverso en la distancia que la métrica de una de estas nueve dimensiones primegenias, ünicas e irrepetibles, que sumadas dan un resultado colectivo de expresión de un ser respecto al sistema complejo al que aterriza con la voluntad de transformarse asumiéndose como un agente de cambio necesario, ineludible y voluntario, al que usted tiene posibilidad de acceder, si estimamos un proceso de co-creación de conceptos, discusiones, relatos, narrativas colectivas, que entre los presentes podamos entender a partir de una lectura convincente de lo que cada uno puede aportar a añadir valor al objectivo colectivo del bienestar sostenible de nuestro sistema complejo social humano, al que pertenecesmos todos, todas, todes.

No quiero estar, dijo Enric.

Prefiero no entrar.

Jo no ho veig així.

No estic disposat a entrar en una discusió que em porti a la violencia amb ningú. No em cal. No és bó per ningú. Sobre tot per ELLS.

ELLS masculinitzats.

ELSS majusculitzats.

Ara ves i minituritzals.

Això és que cal fer.

Això és un pla cojonut.

Jo n’he tingut uns quants.

Hi puc fer un recull.

Un llivrë.

Un llivrë d’aquells.

L’Enric s’emprenya encara més. El cap li fa mal de lo que aquest paio li ha fet aquesta nit al camp. Amb ell. Quins collons. Lideratge d’un futbol ni tant sols d’abans: antic, del passat, d’un lloc diferent. D’un joc diferent. Hi ha aquell. I a les antipodes: quelcom nou: 9.

Un joc 9.

Jo söc 9.

Aquest és la meva valua futbolartística.

Em vull presentar a mon com una oportunitat per a canviar-ho tot al mon. Començant pel futbolart.

Al principi va passar això:

El futbolart li va fotre un cop d’efecte alternatiu: un gir 9.

Llavors, el Marc Gir9.

Giró

Girö: aquest. El gir aquest nou s’escriu això. De «gïrar com ça». El ça és la questió. El quid. El noumen d’aquest escrit. Aquest relat. Aquest vocabulari nou, d’una gramàtica nova, d’un escriptor ticatalà, com cal.

Puc fer aquesta exclusió.

Dir: no.

Anar-hi a contracor.

A contra-corrent de la gent.

Söl.

I n’hi vas.

Jo hi he anat.

Tot söl.

De fa anys.

Pero encara no m’he venut. Ni m’he tirat a no intentar fer la revolució. Ben aviat tot just lo contrari: dissenyar-la. Just abans del que hi creies que ho podries fer, anant tot sól, quan el que volia era justament arrivar tots junt. Al cap d’una lectura compartida. D’una nova literatura.

Aquest tipus de llenguatge literari que en Golman va presentar a una petita colla de 9 agents literaris amb els que hi havia desenvolupat una relació d’amistat de tot just 25 anys. Jo vaig arrivar aqui just l’any ü d’aquest mileni. Es pot dir que el naixement d’un fill 9 de dëu minisculitzat està en linia amb l’arrivada a la ciutat d’un papa que ho canvia tot amb un discurs que es fa viral pel flash mob que fa coincidir l’arrivada d’un Deixeble Nü. Només per imatginar nou espiritualitats totalment noves d’un origin humà, i no pas de la inteligència artificial que hem «educat»/entrenat amb aquesta merda de dades: l’internet dels homes blancs.

El blanc dolgut. El blanc ferit. El blanc indignat. El blanc maltractat. El blanc torturat. El blanc violentat. El blanc violat. El blanc minizculitzat.

Teràpia de xoc: a la inversa.

El manuscrit que vaig lliurar a l’editorial amb la que volia publicar li va pasar el texte al seu traductor de referència: Ferran Ràfols Gesa. El geni de la traducció de Gràcia, Gràcia nova, el tot el territori allà ón es parli el ticatalà. New barcino. La nostra ciutat. Renenment rebatizada amb l’arrivada concurrent d’aquest nou deixebles minisculitzats de nou dimensions més enllà.

El repte és aquest. D’una banda de magnitut. D’altra d’entendre-ho.

El lloc nou.

El joc nou.

Això escrit són dos frases que al teatre només cal üna.

Aquesta üna söc jö.

La gramàtica també és pròpia.

Res a veure (salvo algunas cosas) amb lo d’abans.

Lo clasic.

El llenguatge tradicional de la nostra llengua ticatalana.

L’objecte d’un retir profund d’unes antipodes que m’omplen l’entesa i el seny gràcies a la dimensió complementaria que tot just ens dona tenir sistemes complementaris d’uns i altres que hi pensen tot just lo contrari.

Lo primer és trobar-nos lloc en un mon alternatiu 9.

Això és el car fer des d’una perspectiva humanista de texte sagrat que un dëu nou d’aquests, va consolidar en directe com a resultat de la manipulació humana de la seva representació humanà d’un credo tant valid com el senyor del mercedes blanc, el Deixeble Nü, Golman, Armando Gallo, Rügë, Hënar Álvarez, Gaudí mismo que se postula como un alma de beato que pinta a Santo con más espírtu santo que previas posesiones de los tres juntos, al mismo tiempo, actuando sobre la noción colectiva que el respresentate de diös minisculizado que ha optado por coexistir en el cruce de nueve narrativas de hijos elegidos de diöses coordinados o indiferentes a lo que la comedia humana arroje a la existencia en la forma de un modelo alternativo que nos aleje d’una serie de actitudes y comportamientos alimentados en nuestra psique en forma de pensamiento machirulo sexista misógino violento rastrero retrasado incrustado conservador asociado a lo que perspectiva construida artificialmente en la opinión pública que se dibuja desde una influencia colectiva que vivimos a través de las redes sociales, de la interacción con la IA, regalando nuestros sueños y nuestros datos a agentes del mal que hacen con esos datos lo que les conviene para alimentar los algoritmos que nos permiten acceder a capacidades aumentadas de imaginación de las máquinas que arroja un escenario de exploración de escenarios deseables e indeseables. ¿A qué abocamos el entrenamiento de los datos que nos permitiràn a dar solución a la resolución de los problemas más complejos de nuestra sociedad?

Yo me dedico a esto.

A la divulgación narrativa.

A explicar historias nuevas.

Quan l’Enric em va cridar això vaig flipar en colors. He respirat. Els companys són els meus aliats. No n’estic per anar tocant els ous a ningú. Jo no sóc dels que hi donen indicacions tècniques, tàctiques, ni de qualsevol tipus a ningú. Jo n’estic competint per anar a recuperar la pilota. A ocupar l’espai per tornar a esser rellevant per entrar en estat d’anar a atacar. El joc del futbolartista no és pas només anar a fer gols, sino més aviat entendre-ho tot com un söl esser col·lectiu: l’equip en òptim estat de competència. Anar a competir davant els rivals. I surts al camp i t’hi poses. Ho dones tot.

El futbolart és doncs intenció.

L’actitut devant l’esforc adient.

El exposoma d’un futbolartista.

El futbolart ës l’exposoma.

L’exposoma del futbolart és en Golman.

Golman és a l’exposoma, lo que el Deixeble Nü és a la religió alliveradora dels negres NEW amérïcans.

El surrealisme és necesari en aquests moments precisos. Es tracta d’un doblegar la pàgina per senyalar el sentit. Per tornar a revisar el pensament. Per revisar i rescriure l’història de tot això que no va ser. I li donem un estat de pretenció de mon alternatiu. I llavors reforçem els tòpics dels estereotips que ens amaguen amb l’invisible vel dels nostres biaxos, que m’impedeixen veure-els’hi clarament. Fins ara. ära, minizculitzat, mestizö, d’una alteritat que fins i tot ens ha posat els pels de punta, com un gest dolç adient pel cony, ple de goig i amor, com un sentiment obert a experimentar el cos amb l’estat nü, subtil, gloriòs, que es viu amb els cosos d’uns i altres. Obrir-te aixì. Sentir-te segur. Explorar amb respecte, amb la calidesa de com s’apren a menjar, a seure a taula, a llegir, per tal de trobar sentit a la conversa que s’està mantenint, per dir el que penso, com a reacció a una escolta ben bona, ben activa, sense segadors, sense ulleres, sense cap tecnologia aliena, només amb l’intelecte pur, en exercisi etern, com això que cal explicar amb un història llarga, ben escrita, i que vagi a un lloc nou i llunya. El més llunya que hi ha. Tot just a les antìpodes d’on sóm. Perque tenim la capacitat de fer aquest trasllat. Perque ja hem fet la metàfora d’un canvi trascendental.

En cal una medida de mesura.

Una manera de veure si he arrivat.

Un keipiai.

Sóc un esser narratiu.

Söc un escriptor.

Ara ho veig.

Abans no m’ho creia.

Fins que vaig sentir a Deixeble Nü.

Queden nou dies per a la seva arrivada.

Avui és el dia -9.

Heu d’estar atents a lo que potser un comptador d’una plataforma elementar del que es pot fer en 99 dies.

Una variable de resultat.

Un social impact bond de l’hòstia.

Un mon alternatiu a nou dimensions cap l’altra direcció.

La destinació col·lectiva.

Un viatge a Itaca.

Un altra cop.

Anar i tornar.

Com el futbolart.

ALLS


Tot el mon sap que l’any de mundial un 9 està en el seu millor moment. Tots els futbolartistes ens preparem per estar a punt pel mundial. Jo no sóc l’excepció. Estic a punt per arrivar d’ùltim moment a la concentració. I esdevenir campió del mon.

De cop i volta la Teoria d’en Golman es fa viral.

En nou dies 999999999 interaccions entre converses entre gent normal i un grapat de IAs.

Ja no ès pot pensar el mon sense l’IA.

Ens ho diuen a les noticies.

I als perfils de tot Déu a linked-in.

Haurè de fer un tractat al respecte.

Igual només cal que faci la història dual que ens obre aquests dos camins:

  1. ü i el 9.
  2. El quadern verd i el quadern de colorins.
  3. El primer cop que vaig sortir a la tele va ser a les Rambles d’una diada de Sant Jordi, comprant a Carolina unes roses de colorins que m’havia demanat la meva filla, Laia.
  4. Ara torno a sortir a la tele. Només que ara em criden per parlar del meu llivrë. I tot plegat han estat nou programes nous. Jo mateix els he escrit, guionitzat i representat.
  5. L’actuari com a dissenyador d’un model quantitatiu holistic que permeti l’entrenament i l’arquitectura d’indicadors d’assoliment dels resultats esperats d’una transformació desitjada per al conjunt de la societat.
  6. ¿Cuáles son los 9 problemas que nos toca solucionar colectiva y colaborativamente a partir d’un espacio de co-creación desde una perspectiva
  7. Let’s think of it as a game we’d love to play. And make it a right to play. And play.
  8. Les antipodes al meu veritable estat elemental.
  9. La suma dels estats alternatius al que tots tenim el dret d’anar a pendre pel sac. Quelcom lluny del punt 8. El 8 i 9 com a frontera. La fricció entre contraris. L’objecte de un estat de la natura 9 que permeti el disseny d’un espai irradiant d’un moviment universal etern. Aquest és l’estat de benestar que prenem d’una dicotomia de lo que quelcom és ü, i la noció transformadora d’un colectiu nou en el tots ens hi avoquem a un naltrös.

ALLS


Tots els que estaven a la banda van sortir del camp tot just quan em van dir que em quedès jo a dins. Vaig anar cap ells i els hi vaig preguntar si algú volia entrar. Que semblava que l’Enric volia que sortís algú mes, vaig dir. No facis cas, va tira, em va dir en David. Vaig tornar a fer una mica de drama, com dient, per si és jo per mi, pero sense dir res realment, i només pensant en tornar a posar-me allà on no hi ningú, per que el que tingui la pilota me-la pugui pasar. I apartir d’aqui: futbolart.

ALLS


En realitat vaig acabar de jugar tot lo bé o malament que un dia com aquests pots assumir quan et guanyant així. Ho haguesim pogut fer millor. Pero no vam estar fins. I el porter seu era bonissim. I jo, d’altra banda, no em veia llavors tant malament. Havent tingut alguna pasada massa llarga o massa curta, i unes cuatre o cinc en ordre per la construcció d’ocasions de gol. Aquest és el KPI. No pas correr per correr. Pero no no hi vaig a les 22:00 a donar explicacions tècniques a ningú. Si més no només faig el que sempre he fet al camp: donar indicacions sense cridar, amb l’ull, amb el moviment de desmar-car-me, amb la lectura de partit, baixant o anant a recolar lo que ens pot fer sortir jugant, havent guanyat una aventatge. I segons que tan lluny del gol hi som, els que sóm i com en reb el rival, hem de dibuixar escenaris en la ment, del pas del temps, tot seguit, i tenir prou confiança, control, serenó, i després fer-ho bé, lo que el cap ha pensat, i actuat tot seguit, i corretgir, i anar a lliutar, i pasar aquest paio, i buscar en el radar qui està millor posicionat per continuar el moviment, per compartir el sentit col·lectiu del joc, i fer-ne futbolart en cada gest.

Soc un romàntic. Pero també un lliutador. I porto el gol a les esquenes. Soc en 99.

I aquesta és la meva narrativa futbolartistica de 99 pases.

ALLS


Un video de 99 pases en juego.


«El futbolarte es así»


Entrevista a 9 días del mundial.


Contextos futbolartisticos: futbolü, futbol5, futbol7, futbol9, futbol11, futbol14.


Nueve dimensiones emergentes.


Iteraciones en el tiempo.


La narrativa de la transformación.


Un húngaro me lo dijo un día: «Maradona».

No me había visto jugar.

Pero como Messi con Yamin, yo también tuve mi momento con Diego.

Y eso cierra un círculo.

México, NEW américa, Canadá y Barcelona: las antípodas multiversadas de 9 evangelistas NEW.

El movimiento social.

La narrativa de un supuesto Arturo Belano.

Un tal Golman.

Servidor.

ALLS


Un bloc de cuina amb 9 chefs, dones, ticatalanes. Alls………


Alls………


The last/first ticatalan word.

A NEW language begins.

Before action there was a new language model: NEW.

Let NEW be a 99 meaning variable.

Let’s assume we can tag 99 ways the desired 99 words of any given NEW language model.

Collaborative co-creation of the tico commons.

ALLS


Landing words. Triggers of AI agents to come.


My NEW value venture.


My 9 first readers.

My 9 first backers.


Marc Girò bailando la música que escucha sólo el en los cascos, hasta que da con la palabra correcta: Trampantojo.


The NEW end


Between 54 and 55

Moo Pak has got to me again.

I got up and re-read for the third or fourth time the same page. And I’m still hanging there in a loop that I feel I will not be able to scape.

First thing in the morning. Going up to the beginning of the page. Doubting in to go from 54 to 55 before going right away to write what I missed the last time around. Or letting go. I jumped once again to 55, as I did before, and found out both things could be right. Just like I was last time around. But the feeling of perplexity kept crepting in like an unveling mystery.

I’ve been reading this book for more than one year now. And I’ve picked up some other recomendations from Ferran. And they all have different latencies. Different pace. Different rythms. Reading is habit that can inhabit parallel worlds, and it’s a matter of what sort of sport you play with the after-reading deal. I play the writting bit. But in my own pace as well. Just like my reading. I’ve decided, long ago, to keep the the decision three in an open shape of branches that keep building up while the personal exploration keeps me safe within the contingencies of my writing solitude.

I’m following the Kafka perspective of page 55 in order to address the life of the citizen, the regular person, and the life of the writer. The meaningless and the position between the past, the present and the future that no longer belong to me. Other than this spill of thoughts that come through like a stream of conciousness that represent, somehow, what I am, or the struggle of a lonely man.

And don’t get me wrong. I’m also Swift in that sense, where I know that I’m in the playing field surrounded by a set of a great deal of playmates, a great deal of family, and a great deal of societal partners. In the sense of time and history, I belong to a moment in time that is unfolding before our eyes, while the inception of a new kind of species, the uncontrolled living machines, develop a sense of taste and worldy views that are biased by desing. And for the first time, the villans in the story resemble those of the lamest and greatest movies of all time, even if we are also biased by the kind of stories we were fed when we were growing up, and the type of filter that put thos sceens and narratives before our eyes. And what we did with them when we figured out that we had a chance to create a personal narrative of our own. Also meaningless.

The thing is, the fate of a writer is not in the pursue of readers. Not even in the longing of being published. Or the miracle of being heard. It’s a pulse that lives in those who find the way through the cracks of their own lives to set some time to do so: read&write.

Those to things as one. This is what I knew I had to do with the writings from the readings of Moo Pak. To take every bit of reading rush and spill it out in the same escense of flowing narratives like a walk in the park with a listening friend taking note.

For the first time in the novel I wrasp the sense of loneliness from the narrator, who now lives a alone, and misses the life of a family that is no longer there. The wife. The kids. Time goes by.

The sound of the courtain. The sound of the «persiana europea». The cracking door. The footsteps to the bathroom. The click of the light being set one. The water running. The toilet seat. My wife is waking up. I decided to get up with the dream still pulsing in my brain: a round de vous of spies that need to decide what to do about the next steps, without knowing who’s to trust, or what to do, and how to set it up, for the greatest good of our societal struggle. What’s my personal take in making sense of that. Or addressing that different people will show up to the call for transforming our entire system, and that everyone will show up, the ones who will carry on, the sabotagers, and the expectators of the show.

The door opens again, and the sounds of the morning approaches.

This writting bit is about to become a sunday breakfast.

And hopefully a scape route to the next page.

«Bon dia. ¿No estás viendo el barco? Pon la tele.»

ALLS

Moo Pak’s page 54 as to writing and all

Teorema de ü

I’ve done some Saturday morning early activity, which included organizing some of the thoughts and ideas that make you jump out of bed to start hitting the brain dump. And it took me places where things got organized: my notebook. I am a writer, a poet, and prophet. Or so I say. Among other things. I can always adapt depending on you interest. And on my day. Or the way I feel about disclosing A or B. Or in any case, I’m still figuring out what I am. Is that alright with you?

Well, to me it’s my natural state of doubt. I feel this is the catalyst of my behaviour. Or at least the pulsion of my writing. I have to come back to the the means for writing, wether the pen or the keyboard. It’s all a means of addressing how we interact with the instruments, the technology, and the self within. And sometime that’s a book. Reading.

Moo Pak has got me from the beginning. And I felt it hits close to home. But it also hits me in a way where I need to pause and think. I need to revise the references I know with the ones that sound familiar with the ones that completely fly over my head. But I don’t go out and explore and make a big analysis about them, or even look for the answers of my questions in Google or ChatGPT. It could be an interesting excercise, or at least a compelling list of future readings, but instead I come back to the basic feeling: to write.

And he writes as if he’s talking to his walking pal, the way I talk with a close friend where the conversation might take me where the extreme extrapolation of my mind feels like in the confort of a good listener and thinker. A talking/walking buddy. But the first element is in the thought process. The second in the writing. And somewhere in between you must always go back to the reading bit. And it keeps the cycle going. And so I’m here, talking like I’m walking, and writing, alas, as the time should be there for words to come to terms to what you are able to express in written form.

Text has become an everyman’s tool when they can plagarise all past writers that have been mined by big tech companies to reproduce the thoughts, style and writting of our greatest literary minds, and also to replicate the simple talk of regular people that have fed the beast with the posts, their articles, their entries in platforms, prompts, google questions, and so on and so forth. And so do i when I come here and blabber around for the kick of it, without actually getting any formal structure into my writting habits. Or maybe the other way around, not founding a habit to make my blurps clear and structure enough to actually write so other people could read.

But who cares, anyway. I fell I’m getting things done, and what I like about taking Moo Pak at my own slow pace is that I can make a habit on writting by reading one page at a time, and then come here to write, not necesarily about that page, but what it triggered: the need and feel for writing. That’s where the connection of the moving parts in your fingers puts your mind into a sense of trance. A special kind of letting go, that the finger tips control over the mind, or the other way around. You are just there witnessing what these two ends of your body are doing among them, without actually figuring out who’s in charge. That’s not my thought, bur rather one that came from page 54 of Moo Pak.

«Why, he says, does that sense of efficiency, of the skills of the hands, seems to be missing when one watches a painter of an sculpture at work?»

Gabriel Josipovici, MOO PAK

The hands of the writer, while wih the pen, or with the typewriter. The hand sof a painter, with a brush, or a sculpture with his hands or tools. I feel that connection, and I also tried, in modern terms, to mimick the possibility of becoming a artist. That is to actually do something with my hands: like painting or sculpting. But I haven’t got there yet. No as far as I know I can take this journey.

In in the mean time, I’ve also venture into writting. As much as a writter is when he’s dedicated some time to write. And then let’s see what happens. When the voice kicks in, and the thoughts and frameworks allow your narrative to emerge from the sense of being, from reading, from the life experiences, and all the other sources out there, but specially in here, that kick in this special notion of creating stories. Or rather text.

Text that can be written, but also text that can be read. Or even text that can be text. For the sake of letting the purpose of the writting show at whichever end of the person doing the reading feels like it. As if we can actually transform other peoples mind or perspective. That’s nonesense. But even while that’s not the intention, it is the only aspect that keeps me comming back to writing: to find myself in the process. And it always does.

So reading and writing are two side of the same coin. And I’m cotinuosly flipping it to see if at some point my luck is revealed in either side. And it always does. But that’s also my fault. Or the trick. To be there, self-aware, present. Pausing. Blabbling. Introducing the tempos of the expression that my mind puts into the words that come out, in a way, and not in another. The sense of this expression to become part of who you are, and who I am. Two sides of the same coin, even if you and me are not the same. Or the other way around.

«When you write every word, every letter even, has to be carefully sought for»…

I read the text and came here to cite it, and this is what came out. The games your memory plays on you.

When actually Josipovici wrote:

«When you write every word has to be carefully sought for, every letter even, if your spelling is as shaky as mine»

Turns out my spelling is just as shaky.

The truth is that’s absolutely bullshit. He’s lying as he’s master the way of writing as an expression that can be unleashed by the forces that take over once the fingers and the mind take control. Somehow, somewhere, you are there, in between, with the intention and the flow leaping back and forth to produce the right word and the proper language of what you are actually capable of producing: NEW language.

Or literature, that is. Or a simple story. Or a tale of two poles. A planet from a new perspective. A NEW look at the entirerity. Just because we can always find a new perspective on things. One that is particular for us. One that makes un unique and irreplaceable. A will of göd.

Let’s take a brand new start, like we are part of NEW new york song lullaby. A crooner with a soul for trust, hope and soul. A sort of prayer to negro soul and ancient covenants from the original priests. A prophet’s sigh. A sense of longing. Be-longing. To Bë.

ALLS

art002e015228 (April 6, 2026) – Seen from behind the Moon during Artemis II, the Moon and Earth align in the same frame, each partially illuminated by the Sun. The Moon’s surface appears in sharp detail in the foreground, while Earth sits much farther away, smaller and softly lit in the background. A faint reflection in the spacecraft window is also visible, subtly overlaying the scene. Though their phases differ, both are shaped by the same sunlight, revealing the geometry of the Sun–Earth–Moon system from deep space. Credit: NASA

Azul

Nadie tiene un color. Pero si todos deberíamos tener uno: azul.

Mi literatura son frases de una sola linia.

Solo.

Sólo.

Una de las dos está mal.

Según unos pocos.

Según la mayoría.

¿Qué prefieres?

Lo que pocos deciden.

Lo que muchos quieren.

¿Cuál es el riesgo de esta dicotomía?

¿Cuál podría ser la falacia detrás de mi primer pensamiento?

¿Cómo puedo improvisar yo un papel que tenga el caracter opuesto a lo que naturalmente me es más afín?

Es la transición hacia el otro lado.

Y no tengo manera más fácil de expresarlo con una historia quijotesca que sucede, al día de hoy, entre la meseta de esta península y su isla más oriental. Entre castilla i mao. NEWCAS –> NEWMAO

Eso está casi bien.

Casi bien escrito, pues.

Como si uno quisiera decir una cosa que no sabes si es farol o verdad.

Pero la dices. Y tan ancho.

Ancha es la mancha.

miniscuilizada.

Los que se sientan ofendidos por esas dos novelas (las circunscritas en los dos párafos anteriores a este que ahora leés, mientras yo escribo).

La dualidad de leer y escribir.

Entre tú y yo.

Una experiencia humana sencilla: universal.

Una experiencia humana compleja: multiversal.

Estos dos dualidades representan otra dimensión de mi literatura orientada.

Yo te voy a decir cómo leerme.

Yo no te voy a decir cómo leerme.

Esas dos elecciones, también, están ahí para que tomes la que quieres.

¿Qué quieres?

o

ALLS


La única elección del tico commons

Yo soy azul.

YOSOYAZUL. . . . . . . . .

Los 9 puntos de cualquier variable

Jo sóc el nou.

Sóc el nou d’un poble nou.

I tinc quelcom a dir nou.

De nou.

NEW


Palabras de llegada.

Destinaciones de un voluntad colectiva regenerativa.

¿Qué queremos de verdad para darle la vuelta a este infeliz sistema?

Ya lo dijo Josipovici: Napoleón nos chingó a todos. A día de hoy.

Y la francia azul se tiró de los pelos.

99 franceses azules se tiran de los pelos.

Esta pieza de videoarte se tiene que proyectar en la pieza de al lado del Louvre como una intervención del tecer milenio que lo vino a chingar todo. O sea, para que el arte subversivo de un azul tropical, en el seno del meollo público francés más global del momento, sin duda alguna esta pieza de arte colectivo azul sobrecoge al Sena como las cabezas decapitadas de sus realezas.

Hasta ahí la pieza que lee en la pared de la exposición.

Imaginemos que esta exposición no se expone en dicha sala del Louvre hasta que se consiga resolver todo este pedo del robo, la ventana, el tipo que pidió a esos vatos que se la robaran, los batos que debían preveer el mecanismo de riesgo ante la probabilidad de un robo. ¿Esto pasaría en el mundo rojo?

Y los azules se echan las manos a la cabeza.

Todavía no se tiran de los pelos.

Sólo han errado puerta.

Mientras que rojo: gol.

Yo soy el gol que gana un mundial alternativo.

Paralelo a esta surrealidad.

Mucho más cercana a Duchamps, Buñuel y Dalí dibujando un triángulo sagrado entre Paris, Calanda y Portlligat.

Lo que un surrealista de este tiempo haría es retrotraer el tiempo a aquella época.

Y tirar hacía allá.

Ir tirando.

Si me queréis, veniros.

La imagen de un texto inteligente te lleva de una ficción a un viaje inmediato al más allá. Hoy, ahora, NAW, esto es posible. Vamos. . . . . . . . .
El texto repetido es adrede: así usted lo ve o lo ve. ¿Lo ve?

ALLS


Mi literatura te lleva tan sólo a nueve nodos de destinación NEW.

Esta es mi metanarrativa.

Y por tanto se rige bajo el sesgo imperfecto de mi voluntad subjetiva y fácilmente manipulable.

Primero vamos a informarnos. Vamos a ver. Vamos a leer. Vamos a estudiar. Vamos a analizar. Vamos a diseñar escenarios. Vamos a diseñar redes neuronales que respondan a la metaestructura del tico commons. Sea el tico commons el concepto NEW de lo que el procomún que nació según los ingleses en la concepción intelectual y colectiva de los «commons». Pero esta vez, visto desde allá para acá. Por hacernos a la idea de justo lo contrario. Porque nunca lo hemos intentado. Todos a la vez.



Estados de la naturaleza NEW:



99 journeys to a singular reduntant resilient holistic transformation

99j2asr2ht. . . . . . . . .

It’s a logic of the metastructure of this one NEW paradox theorem.
Dual choices. Everything can be dualized. And we get to choose. Posibilism.

I just write was not right with me. Really, what’s not right with the world. Why else would I do this? To solve my own situation and misfortunes. Just in hope one day I’ll see the light. And I come to terms with these NEW set of terms.

This is what it’s about. About a NEW way of thinking. Nonexisten until now. The greatest story ever told.

People want choices.

And I can provide 9 of them.

But you may only inhabit one.

ünö. . . . . . . . .

Una dimensión extra-ordinaria en la que tiene cabida el entrenamiento de las variables que sirvan a la profunda transformación de tí mismo: your own personal bias.

99 trans

Esta es una transformación nada más. Pero tiene 99 dimensiones. También podrían ser, y de hecho lo es, 99 transformaciones. Que 9 estaciones me separan de una metaestructura orientada a la transformación de dicha situación a resolver desde un colectivo de nueve personas orientado al cambio y la transformación.

El discurso lo promulga uno desde su particular punto de partida. Este es el mio. El propio. El que representa sólo a üno: mi yo en proceso de transformación. La destinación está clara: ünö.

ünö sos vos: trans.

Vos mismo te transformás.

Y también podés calibrar las variables de las columnas, el metaverso de tu estado alternativo al ser-estar en el mundo real. Cualquiera que haya sido tu suerte: la carta del sitio en el que naciste. El azar de nuestra existencia y del porvenir. Hasta el punto moderno de la concepción colectiva de una solución suficiente para el conjunto de la humanidad: el estado de absolución. La gloria eterna. Aquí. Ahora. NAW. . . . . . . . .


La dualidad alternativa y de inmediata resolución

ALSS

Where to start to fullfil you own journey

We all have expectations to be fulfilled. We all want to be happy. And feel it’s comfortable state of mind. Yet it never seems to be there. It’s never enough. We are not quite ready.

Moo Pak, once again, hit a key that set the motion to come back here and write again. Just to find the sense of finding the perfect stranger, in those words, in those walks, in those shoes. And in a conversation with that person that listens to this flow of free speech, in the greater sense, the things that come out when you are bursting out what’s in your head, through the influece of literature, music, culture, and thus giving birth to a certain thought, a certain idea, a thesis of some kind. Oh, that’s a great place to be. Oh, what great literature.

Yet, the sensation at this very moment of the book is that of Kafka’s walking around Prague feeling overwhelmed with the extra energy the summer brings, too much that his legs feel too long, and his arms swing about, those to bigger that their usual size, not finding harmony with this newly adquired power. That’s about the same situation young minds feel when the have that sucking the marrow out of life but not quite finding the purpose, or the words to express what they feel; what they are living. And as life goes on, the right words come to life, yet the energy is no longer there. The paradox in living.

The letter, he said, sums up not only everything that Kafka’s life and writings are about but the situation in which we all find ourselves in the two centuries since the French Revolution, when we feel that everything is possible but that there is no way of knowing what to do or how to do it.

Moo Pak. Gabriel Josipovici

And then he goes about the fact that a regular guy from Corsega becomes an emperor. In the modern way of just wanting to will get you there, and all you need to do is desire it long enough to see it happen, when in the majority of cases, all you find is frustration of those dreams being overwelmhed by the personal circumstances that somehow you turn the pointing finger at your favorite scape goats: the world conspiring against you, wether bad luck or the machination of others.

Josipovici is right. Most of us, this is what we get. A taste of failure. And yet, a few get the taste of devouring their ticked to ride the big wave. And the stay there, and we look, and the scene is absurd, as the simpler way in which our lives would be fulfilled is quietly being ignored by the very same seduction coming from swift melodies of nyphms and or flashing lifestyles of influencers. Capitalism brings us here: to stare at the screen to see the lives of those who pretend to have achieved that happiness and fulfilment.

But from which direction is that fulfilment and happiness to come? What do I have to do to achieve it? I am ready and willing to do anything, and I have the energy and determination to carry through whatever I set my mind to -but how to start? What direction to take? Where to plant my feet for the first big shove?

Well, that’s exactly how I feel. Or rather, that’s exactly how I’ve felt, for a long time, in the pursuit of the starting line, ahead, as I see it in the horizon, but when get there the silly line has moved farther away. It’s this continuos scape that keeps me here, figuring out how flow beyond this realm.

Somehow I feel I’ve already departed. I’m ready to flow. And to reach out to the world. As the world, too, is tired of waiting. So here I come. Ready or not.

ALLS

Moo Pak moves me in dimentions in every page of the walk

Walking and talking.

That’s been kind of my thing for a while. Instead of walking with someone, I’ve done an isolation exercise to talk to myself, while also assuming to be talking to the world. That’s right, the world is a big place, I know, but I’m really talking to myself to project something about that walk that is completely ethernal. A simple description, or a most profound insight that’s just poped into my head. And bum, like that, it’s out in the world.

Of course if I was only intending to put out the word into the open I’d just need to speak the word, and forget about it. Then it’d be like an oblivious wisper. And that would be fine. I still have moments like that, I quite enjoy them myself. I let them pass. And begone. But the obsession of a writer is to catch those moments, and that’s why you see suspicious people writting little notes in notebooks all over the place, nowadays. They are the strange remainings of a cult of people who are unsatisfied about their whereabouts, and still get the desire to create an alternative world. Through art. And it all starts with that unsual idea. That unimagined thought, that somehow, who knows really how, came to you. And you didn’t let it go. You caught it. And secured it.

I’m the slower reader of Moo Pak. I average two pages every time I sit. Cause there’s something in each page that jumps up and bits me. And I don’t get to scribble at the edges of the printed page, as it happens to be a borrowed book.

I know I could just keep going. I could just keep reading. And that would be fine too. Like letting an idea fly by. But I’m in catchy mood. Specially about a book so decisive to me, as I’ve let to believe that this book will be. I’ve placed my faith upon a reading exercise that could turn my idea catching into an actual writting of my own. It’s an ownership exercise. And a style flagrant stealing. Or rather a inspiration. A tribute. Ain’t it all the same thing?

But this did not come by itself. I was lead to this book. I was introduce to this reading exercise by the recomendation, and lending, of a book someone else thought of when he read a notebook of mine. Ferran Ràfols is Anagrama’s go to guy when translating a complex and profound text published in English or in French. He’s Foster Wallace in Catalan. Or Amelie Nothom every year. But most importantly, he’s Gabriel Josipovici in Moo Pak. So he’s not just a pasionate reader, but a gifted translator, and a prominent writer, as all translators must be, he’s also kind enough to read my unpublished notebook. He provided me with not just notes, but references, and honest feedback on what he kept reading through, without exactly knowing what was there, and not just made it through, but pointed me to two references that I’m now reading to prepare the launch of my very own formal writting aspirations in the literary realm, what ever that means.

So every page I read, I need to get hooked in Moo Pak’s tide, as a surfer who’s spot the right wave to catch. And in every attempt, the same result: a perfect drop and yet another writing spur to ignate the fire of my own literary treat. It’s the topics of that conversation. And the electric current in a continuos motion that will never stop. Our own concious mind, linking back and forth the previous thought that is build into words, in a convesation worth having, with a good friend to walk with.

Now I know I speak too much. I’m a chaterbox. I must confess. But you would have already guessed if you are still staring at my face. And I know it’s rude. That’s why I don’t do it public anymore. It steals people’s time. They have rather more important and relevant things to do. They have their own opinion. And they don’t want to listen. Just listen. So I don’t speak in public anymore. I rather listen. And write. But for my own pleasure. For my own futher understanding. To cope with me. I too myself get tired of this chaterbox. But it doesn’t stop. And I’ve learn to love what bugs me. As I often see it as a way forward. As an inevitability. The dark side of moon. Even if we never see it. If we only get, in that one case, just one face. You know the other exists. But we don’t get to experience it. Does that mean that the moon does not rotate in its own axis?

Bookshops. That’s the thing that stroke me about Moo Pak on this given page I got stuck with. Bookshops in London, Paris or Lisbon. Bookshops sell books. Readers go to bookshops to read. There is a transaction, both economically, socially and transformationally. But it takes sometime to feel the groove for bookshops. And why one should go. And how book people mingle there, wether working, wether planning the next master move to grow inside the complex spider web of cultural and intellectual show. Because it’s a great show. With lights, with debates, with aristocracy, with labor, with unbelievable out of blue success stories from nobodies that made themselves up, by becoming a writer… and actually making that connection with readers who got hooked in to a narrative. In itself, every writer is looking to express himself in made-up stories that either hide him, or reveal her.

A choice of words sometimes defines you. And you get to speak your mind. To get close to the actual shake-up. You are actually struggling to say what you must, without saying too much, or going outside of the stream of conciousness, because you know yourself too well. There is not time for all this blabery. Too much bla, bla, bla as Greta has expressed beautifly. ¿Thunberg or Gerwig?

All of the sudden I don’t know which one of the three I want to be. You noticed that the choices could grow from two to three without a sweat. No guilt either. I can do whatever I want within the realm of my stream of writting. Wether that’s meaningful, or not, only the reader who bears me will go through. The rest will go back to their no-reader bit, or to their confort author. And that’s fine. I don’t blame him/her/you. We all have choices to make. References to climb, to then let go.

But my life could very well be a rotating act among these three Gretas: Thunberg, Gerwig or Garbo. I might be mix of the three, but I can’t play my mixedtape role all the time. I have to focus like the did to get their legacy across. To speak your mind against the greater social challenges and threats as collaborative action becomes crucial. To write your own stories, and direct them. To interpret them. That’s me entering the show business. There’s no business like show business. It’s all still just a show.

«In Paris, as in Milan and Munich, he said, everything has turned into fashion, there are fashions in books and fashions in food, fashions in plays, fashions in clothes»

Jack Toledano – Moo Pak

This was written back in 1994. Fashionably things to do have turned into a megatrend that keeps rotating faster than we can imagine. But the thing is, when we talk about books we are also talking about the intellectual and cultural significance of those really relevant books. Not just the trends. And that has been shaken up. But look at the clarity of Josipovici when he pointed his character’s intuition towards this direction: «All this frightful tide of polluted water, this torrent of cliché and fashionable posturings must be avoided, he said, in England and in France, in Germany and in Italy if we are to live at all. Otherwise the dehumanization of the working in life by factory repetition and to the dehumanization of children’s life by video games will be added the dehumanization of intellectual life».

We might be there already, but at this point what stroke me the most is the actual interaction that those four European countries, and specifically, those four European cities, have in my current scenario as a new-commer to this old world. A reference to these countries, Germany, Italy, France and England, have a resonance my very own personal moment, in what I’d like to see it as insider perspective from within the European Union. At first, 24 years ago, when I first arrived to live in Europe, as an illegal alien, I didn’t quite grasp the entirety of the global political scene that the EU represented. I was lucky enough to have a roomate who was not only a firm Eurpean believer, he’d also done his economics master’s thesis on it, having lived in London, and having attended the prestigeous London School of Economics. This sort of formal knowledge of the EU, what it represented as a political instrument, was quite relevant to me in order to understand some early clues on the matter. Yet, as Jorge had the experience first hand, I was only experiencing the idea from an outsider perspective, comming from a Latinamerican scenery that could aknowledge a common cultural ground, and a rather diverse, unequal, polarized, contradictory. So in a way, my un understanding and disbelief had already been trained to understand the complexity of the EU, the aspirational dream, and the realpolitik involved.

After 24 years being «one of you», I can confirm that I am already a grown local foreigner. And just in time to step in. I was cautious enough to keep my ears open as I learned along the path to understand the context and surrounding of what was happening. It’s a joyride at first, if you are lucky enough to get the good toss of the coin. The lotary in this case favoured a good first 12 year lesson, with the necessary ups-downs-ups-downs, enough to know what’s the outmost feeling of love, acomplishment, and collective collaborative belonging; and also enough to know the cold hard ground you land on, face first, when you are dropped from the higher grounds and experience that journey to inner hell of your own dismantled humanity.

It’s a harsh learning curve. And we all get a piece of it. We’ve been through a global pandemic and still we are able to manage to leverage enough missinformation to have a blury clear understanding of what’s going on. Or we think we do. Lately, it’s been more transparently put, but all these years since I first came to this «old» world, with my NEW naif mentality.

But the most relevant element Josipovici, or rather Jack Toledano, left me on this page is this: «But it’s already too late, he said. It has already happened. The horror is already upon us and the only way we can fight it is to retreat to the fortress of ourselves prepare and prepare for a long siege.» That’s what I did. Ever since I started building my art, defining my format, aknowledging the words. When I did fall all the way down, the only way to build myself up was through my desire to come out of there. The rebuilding of myself, as a act of collective aknowledgment, with a vision of a personal quest, that could only be expressed by looking inside, in each piece a time, while bootstrapping my own NEW narrative.

ALLS

Swift, Thomas Mann, Panofsky, Gombrich

On Moo Pak

Reading material from a reading source. Books that lead you to books. Writing about reading. Thought from another time, still present, still meaningful, still new. Ideas that go beyond the state of affairs, that turn out to be travelling fast nowadays. As always, in accordance with the feeling of each time, magnified by the disruption of sources of meaningless distractions. All the time. Everywhere.

Tuns out I have to read more. More sources. More books. Other cultures. It’s not new. It’s an old assignment. And I still have a to read list that tends to infinity. And yet, somehow, sometimes, I get in the zone, and accumulate a winning streak. I’m reading just about the amount of books I could handle. And still, sometimes, it feels like it’s not enough.

Johnathan Swift

You look at a writer’s picture and wonder. In this case, a painting. That’s the person. Under his skin, there’s the story. How did it come to mind at first? How did it evolve into the final draft of the finished print? How many people got involved in this process?

The writer is the lone creator on it own. It requires no one else to pitch in, while sometimes relevant feedback may help to assist the point. A good friends ear. An editor’s advice. A publisher desire to risk the chances of people caring. At that point, there are more people involved. We are now talking about the industry. About the market, and no longer about the writing in itself. But what’s good writing without readers. Just thoughts. Lonely ones. Aspirations. Melancholy.

Thomas Mann

Thomas Mann was the man. Cigarrete lit, winter gloves of a gentle-man. Carefully shaped and tendered mustage. Four button suit. Stern wooden chair. Glancing eyes.

Jonh and Tom enter a room. They came together. The room turns and judges the two charecters. Something is on. Everybody knows. They still keep their cool, as the spell has been bound, and the action is just waiting to reveal itself. It will take some time. It’s not loud. Not yet. It’s only intriguing. And sparkling. Nobody else has that chill. Yet the party has been transformed. In an unexpected way. A good way.

That’s how you differentiate writers. The ones that can enter the room and light up the space. And the ones that only do that when they enter into their world. Where everything, every card, every sense of joy, every precision, every spirit, every meaning, spells itself out into the page, while leaving nothing left in real life, but the empty container of curious mind without social skills. As writers, they both trascend, as it’s in reading where you build the immaculate communion of two minds, and evolve into the possibilities of creating yet another story, yet another tale, yet another creative outburst.

Van Dyke según Panofsky

You can write about anything. Stories, however, represent a different kind of writting. Everyone writes in their own terms. Art too can be narrated. Text lives beyond literature, and it may be printed on any given matter, in any given surface, for any given purpose.

Ernst Gombrich, Art historian

The Story of Art. Gombrich has influence the narrative of art. Up to the point in which the character of Moo Pak understood that these four characters were bound to be mentioned in a stream of thought, at any given time, to transfer a profound reference to something condensed in tiny hint. Context provides the first field of action. If you are outside of it, the sense of it slips by. And you go on. And so does the inintial intention of that given thought. So going back to capture them, is a matter of being able to rewind time. To back up. To read again. To read. For the first time. An author you don’t know, but now have a purpose to pursue.

ALLS

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

On writing from the top of your head

Study on Moo Pak, by Gabriel Josipovici

By Golman

«Only the last paragraph can tell you whether you’ve got the first paragraph right, he said, only the last word can make sense of the first.»

Gabriel Josipovici, Moo Pak

I was handed this book yesterday by Ferran Ràfols, who’s the translator of the book to catalan. The book is signed, and while he thought he had another copy of the book, he didn’t so he made sure to clear things up: «Ei, when you send me that message yesterday, and from the talk we had the other day, I remember I told you about this book. But, bear in mind that I thought I had too copies, but I don’t, so I want I will need it back».

Fair enough. Clarity is very relevant to build trust among people. Besides, I told him that this sort of thing would inspire me to see how to extract from this reading my own personal notes given the circumstances where I will not be able to mark the pages, and doodle the margins with those sactions of my thoughts that populate my persona library, and that are there quitely waiting for me to back to them, and make something out of them.

This way, I’ll be forced to do something else. And this text is what I’ve figured out to produce in order to extract the knowledge from this recomendation, in a time where I’m trying to find myself the vehicle to kick start a narrative with my name on the cover.

So here we are, a couple of pages in, and already get anxious from leaving stuff behind that I wish I would have made a note on. The fact is that the conversation that the narrator is having in the very first page of the book binds me to the idea that I will encounter a place where I will be drawing some lines that connect my mind with both the characters and the author. And I will be pursuing the reverse engineering of a creative process that expells my own demons towards the pages of voices that reasemble the structure of my desired tales. This long battle within.

So I stumbled upon this quote, and I thought about using this format. Other format would have been to make an ilustration, like all those that are stacked within the pages of my notebooks. That’s certainly a way to go about it, but I’m going to take this path of writting it directly in my page, as the narrative is exposing just the opposite of my own process, in at least two ways.

First, the narrator explains that he has given up writing by hand. I actually, a few year back, did the reverse move: I went to handwriting in order to find the expression and tension of my caligraphy, and to be bound to measure of the page, the spaces between the top of the page, the size of my lettering, and the purity of my stroke. While the character gave up writting in order to explore type writting. That is to use a classic Olivetti that could allow him to se the words coming out the page, but also be limited by the capacity of blank sheet of paper. The written printed words out there. From the very beginning. It’s clearly an appealing feature to write and get it right. So he goes about the way in which in order to do so, he has the capacity to keep going, until he gets to the end. And once printed, or once he’s found the mistaken word, sentence of paragraph, starting over from the top of the page provides a second exercise of getting close to the truth. As you copy your own words, but now out of the printed version, the formality and decisiveness of that text no longer presents the doubts those same words bare when they were being thrown into the page. And that’s a beaufiful step forward that I need to revisit as in my personal struggle I need to jump into a new phase: re-reading my own texts and editing them to finally get the worked out version of what I really want to share with the world.

So while his friends insist that the new thing would be to use text processor, from an Apple or a Mackintosh (that provides a clue as to when the character is dealing with this issue), he rather stays within the realm of the typewritter structure, that allows him to go page by page.

At some point I took that detour too. I stopped using word documents to shift-up towards the publishing bit of an online wordpress format. More like the friends of the narrator, I was propelled of the word document to try to get something out there, and the word files were pilling within the folders of oblivion.

So this too is a tension point between Josipovici’s approach and my own. And this how I will intend to find the common links and bridges from my own mindset to his own. And I am using a relevant messenger to transpose these two worlds: Ferran’s advice to do so.

And I’ve made up my mind just now: instead of going on and on, I’ll stop here and work out a single text, as short as around nine paragraphs would allow, to extract a written effect from a quote from Moo Pak. This is my new format. This exercise will allow me to unleash from my own gatekeepers.

ALLS