Why Disney World?

 

I remember Sunday evenings when I was 10 years old or so, watching Sorpresa y media (A surprise and half) a TV program, as a family ritual, and I just wanted my dream to come true, to go to that far away land...

And watching that other TV program, one by Siembra group (the name I can´t recall, but I do remember that the man who hosted it was named Pancho). He would ask general knowledge questions and the prize was a trip to this place, magical place at least in my head and my friends' who had already been there, and they had collected autographs by Mickey and other characters, in a notebook specially bought there for that purpose.

I used a Mickey wristwatch that my grandparents had brought me as a present, I liked it a lot.

 

Moreover, in the icecreams by Frigor, they made you collect stickers and if you could get all the album ones, you could win THE trip. My friends would help me looking for the ones I was missing, in every package of these stick-icecreams, in the sportfields. You looked through the dustbins, and in this way I got the stickers from the different kingdoms in Disney World that, if I´m not mistaken, they were five. 

Ahhh, and the experience of going to Disney Animation Festival at La Rural with my brothers and cousins, in my uncle´s car. My emotion at seeing how they created and made the animated drawings prevailed over the Minnie and Mickey's show one.

When I was a kid, I wanted to go to Disney. My friends and my family are witnesses of this.

Now I think that Disney was like an American Dream children version, that they made us believe that it was THE place, "where dreams came true". Why would it be so? Because Mickey lived there?

I travelled very little as a child. I think that I just wanted what it implied to take the journey: share moments with ease and feel more freedom, in unknown places discovering wonders.

Some years ago, a friend said to me: "Sooner or later, the masks fall down."

Please, let it happen sooner than later.

Mask or heart? Each one chooses their way, journey, destiny.   

Wise Up*

Si uno siente algo que molesta
tal vez, a veces
busca taparlo
en lugar de verlo de frente
o de a poco, y desgranarlo.

De repente, un rayo 

como calor de hogar
en un día invernal

un café con una amiga,
andar en bicicleta todos los días,
un llamado breve de tu hermano,

hacen que percibas 

cuánto necesitabas
una buena conversación.

Sentirte en casa.
No mucho más.

*Wise Up es una canción de Aimee Mann (1996). Forma parte de la banda sonora de la película Magnolia (Dir: Paul Thomas Anderson, 1999)

If you feel something that bothers

maybe, sometimes

you want to cover it

instead of seeing it right in front

or little by little, and thresh it out.

Suddenly, a lighning

like home warmth

in a winter day

a coffee with a friend,

riding the bicycle everyday,

a brief call from your bother,

make you perceive

how much you needed

a good conversation.

To feel at home.

That´s all.

*Wise Up is a song by Aimee Mann (1996), part of the official soundtrack of Magnolia (Dir: Paul Thomas Anderson, 1999)

Herzog´s 24 life advice

1. Always take the initiative.

2. There is nothing wrong with spending a night in jail if it means getting the shot you need.

3. Send out all your dogs and one might return with prey.

4. Never wallow in your troubles; despair must be kept private and brief.

5. Learn to live with your mistakes.

6. Expand your knowledge and understanding of music and literature, old and modern.

7. That roll of unexposed celluloid you have in your hand might be the last in existence, so do something impressive with it.

8. There is never an excuse not to finish a film.

9. Carry bolt cutters everywhere.

10. Thwart institutional cowardice.

11. Ask for forgiveness, not permission.

12. Take your fate into your own hands.

13. Learn to read the inner essence of a landscape.

14. Ignite the fire within and explore unknown territory.

15. Walk straight ahead, never detour.

16. Manoeuvre and mislead, but always deliver.

17. Don’t be fearful of rejection.

18. Develop your own voice.

19. Day one is the point of no return.

20. A badge of honor is to fail a film theory class.

21. Chance is the lifeblood of cinema.

22. Guerrilla tactics are best.

23. Take revenge if need be.

24. Get used to the bear behind you.

Note: An earlier version of this post appeared on our site in January 2015.

Detour / Desvío - Martina BV & Marty Lombard

I take pictures of crooked trees—

their bending backs, their wandering reach,

their stubborn way of holding light

even when the world leans hard on them.

A detour in search of brightness

has tugged at me for as long as I can remember.

Some paths open like soft invitations,

some pull you sideways

until you finally learn

that the long way home

is sometimes the truest one.

In this city I visit,

there’s a clarity that settles in the air—

a wide-open breathing space,

a sense that the wind carries

not just dust or warmth

but the quiet answers

you don’t know you’re asking for.

Maybe that’s why here

our hearts move differently,

as if the streets hum with something

just beyond language—

something stirring under the noise,

something shifting in the bones.

We feel more

of what is moving:

the hush between footsteps,

the rise of unnoticed hope,

the gentle tilt of the day

toward whatever light is waiting.

And so I keep taking pictures

of crooked trees and wandering roads,

following every detour that glows

just a shade brighter

than the last—

trusting that whatever bends,

whatever strays,

still finds its way

toward light.

Desvío - Martina BV and Marty Lombard (versión en castellano, de mi autoría)

Saco fotos a árboles torcidos—

sus espaldas arqueadas, su errante búsqueda

su obstinada manera de sostener luz

incluso cuando el mundo se reclina 

inflexible sobre ellos.

Un desvío en busca de claridad

me ha impulsado desde que tengo memoria.

Algunos caminos se abren como suaves invitaciones,

algunos te empujan a los lados

hasta que al fin aprendes

que el largo camino a casa

es a veces el más verdadero.

En esta ciudad que visito,

hay una claridad que se asienta en el aire—

un amplio y abierto espacio de respiro,

una sensación que el viento lleva y trae

no solo polvo o calidez

sino las silenciosas respuestas

que no sabés que estás preguntando.

Tal vez es por eso que aquí

nuestros corazones se mueven de manera diferente,

como si las calles vibraran con algo

más allá del lenguaje—

algo agitando debajo del ruido,

algo mutando en los huesos.

Sentimos más

de lo que se está moviendo:

el susurro entre los pasos,

el ascenso de la ignorada esperanza,

la delicada caída del día

hacia lo que cualquier luz esté esperando.

Y entonces, sigo sacando fotos

de árboles torcidos y andando las rutas,

siguiendo cada desvío que brille

solo una sombra un poco más luminosa

que la última—

confiando que lo que sea que se incline,

lo que sea que se deje llevar,

aún encuentra su camino

hacia la luz.

The Best Bull Rider of All Time: J.B. Mauney (2018)

Bob Dylan (is like a) Bull Rider

'It is the first line that gives the inspiration and then it's like riding a bull. Either you just stick with it, or you don't.' 

Bob Dylan

Jinete de rodeo / Rodeo Jockey / Bull Rider (poem)

Estimado vaquero jinete de rodeo, 

¿Cómo se siente montar un toro?

—Es como una turbulencia

pero muy muy fuerte.

—Me da miedo.

—Es divertido, entretenido, y peligroso, sí.

—Te divertís y entretenés 

con la muerte un rato
como si bailaras con ella.

—Eso hace un vaquero.

—Como los poetas: juegan 

con la muerte, por asumirla 

presente cada día.

—Hoy murió una vaca.

Rodeo Jockey 

Dear Bull Rider cowboy,

How does it feel to ride a Bull?

—It´s like a turbulence

but very very intense.

—It gives me the creeps.

—It´s fun, entertaining and dangerous, yes it is.

—You have fun and entertain yourself 

with death for a while

as if you danced with it. 

—That´s what a cowboy does.

—As poets do: they play

with death, assuming

its presence everyday.

—A cow died today.

RHCP for Hillel

Harvest - Louise Glück

It’s autumn in the market—
not wise anymore to buy tomatoes.
They’re beautiful still on the outside,
some perfectly round and red, the rare varieties
misshapen, individual, like human brains covered in red oilcloth—

Inside, they’re gone. Black, moldy—
you can’t take a bite without anxiety.
Here and there, among the tainted ones, a fruit
still perfect, picked before decay set in.

Instead of tomatoes, crops nobody really wants.
Pumpkins, a lot of pumpkins.
Gourds, ropes of dried chilis, braids of garlic.
The artisans weave dead flowers into wreaths;
they tie bits of colored yarn around dried lavender.
And people go on for a while buying these things
as though they thought the farmers would see to it
that things went back to normal:
the vines would go back to bearing new peas;
the first small lettuces, so fragile, so delicate, would begin
to poke out of the dirt.

Instead, it gets dark early.
And the rains get heavier; they carry
the weight of dead leaves.

At dusk, now, an atmosphere of threat, of foreboding.
And people feel this themselves; they give a name to the season,
harvest, to put a better face on these things.

The gourds are rotting on the ground, the sweet blue grapes are finished.
A few roots, maybe, but the ground’s so hard the farmers think
it isn’t worth the effort to dig them out. For what?
To stand in the marketplace under a thin umbrella, in the rain, in the cold, no customers anymore?

And then the frost comes; there’s no more question of harvest.
The snow begins; the pretense of life ends.
The earth is white now; the fields shine when the moon rises.

I sit at the bedroom window, watching the snow fall.
The earth is like a mirror:
calm meeting calm, detachment meeting detachment.

What lives, lives underground.
What dies, dies without struggle.








https://yalereview.org/article/harvest

A un vaquero

No quiero tiroteo sin fin
a la intemperie
sólo porque sí.

También puedo ser vaquera.

No es sólo para hombres,

aunque en el cine haya

únicamente cowboys.

 

Después de mi movida,

espero que el juego siga.

Pero él prepara el terreno y se va.

Que sea equitativo

sería lo más justo.

 

¿Disparar sólo para hacer ruido?

Ya no gasto pólvora, en nada.

La economía está difícil y busco

ser lo más ecológica que pueda.

Que la conversación sea

como el hogar encendido:

abierta como un juego

porque lo vital es el fuego.

 

Quiero calor de hogar.

No quiero tiroteo sin fin.

Historia en el viento

Las hojas son del viento

y la verdad debe ser del pueblo.

Que salga a la luz

como la gente a las calles

como las hojas se desprenden 

de los árboles...

Está en el aire. 

No se puede ocultar.

Cobardes quienes no la quieran 

ver ni mostrar.

Gigolós y mantenidas

Hay varios perfiles en categoría de “vividores” 

o “mantenidos”, que atraen a la persona 

que se autosustenta tranquila, si está 

con la guardia del todo o medio baja.

No fue el primer gigoló con el que se cruzó

pero sí el más obvio, el que por fin

le hizo ver el tipo de personajes que ya 

no le interesaría conocer ni dar chance. 

Seria pérdida de tiempo para una laburante.

Empezó a ver más claramente

soltera y más viva que nunca.

En espera abierta, atenta y sin apuro 

de amor real, verdadero, genuino. 

Personas que buscan ser mantenidas o sacar 

algún provecho económico de una relación,

son un parásito de otro. No hay amor ahí.

Y no hay manera que eso lleve a algo bueno.

Fall, leaves, fall - Emily Brontë

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.






Source: Poets of the English Language (Viking Press, 1950)

To Autumn - John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

 Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

   With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

   And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

      To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

   With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

      For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

   Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

   Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

   Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

      Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

   Steady thy laden head across a brook;

   Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

      Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?

   Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

While barred clouds bloomthe soft-dying day,

   And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

   Among the river sallows, borne aloft

      Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

   Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

   The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

      And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Biblio-traficantes

                                                                        A Carolina Esses

Tengo una amiga poeta y pisciana

12 años mayor que yo.

Nos unió el trabajo en cultura.

Por momentos es como una hermana

por otros es más como una tía.

Pero la mayor parte del tiempo

la siento como una madrina.

No digo hada por cuestiones obvias

porque es humana como yo y como vos.

Pero ella sí que me provee de libros

más que nadie.

Se sabe entre lectores que no todos

son tan buenos a la hora de prestar 

sus libros más preciados. 

Pero Caro conmigo sí.

Nuevos o viejos, en inglés o en castellano.

Y siempre el intercambio es rico y conversado

antes, durante y después

cuando se los devuelvo.

En general son autores que amamos

como la amistad que nos une.