"¡Si se puede!" (oración de condición o suposición) .
"¡Sí se puede!" (afirmación alentadora).
Y he allí, primero, la importancia de un acento y, más que nada, la razón por la cual la selección mexicana nunca gana un mundial; su gente duda de ella hasta cuando vitorean.
Les propongo que cada vez que alguien escriba la mentada frase y no le ponga acento, línchenlo, cástrenlo o al menos denle un buen zape porque por incautos de tal calibre su selección jamás gana (y digo su selección porque yo no la escogí).
Saben qué... mejor ni la digan ya. Búsquense otra frase porque ésa me suena a marcha fúnebre, además, cada vez que un mexicano dice "¡sí se puede!" Dios le pega a un niño en la cara.
lunes, 7 de junio de 2010
domingo, 7 de marzo de 2010
Apathy, the main symptom of the second phase, was a
necessary mechanism of self-defense. Reality dimmed, and
all efforts and all emotions were centered on one task: pre
serving one's own life and that of the other fellow. It was
typical to hear the prisoners, while they were being herded
back to camp from their work sites in the evening, sigh with
relief and say, "Well, another day is over."
It can be readily understood that such a state of strain,
coupled with the constant necessity of concentrating on the
task of staying alive, forced the prisoner's inner life down
to a primitive level. Several of my colleagues in camp
who were trained in psychoanalysis often spoke of a
"regression" in the camp inmate—a retreat to a more
primitive form of mental life. His wishes and desires
became obvious in his dreams.
What did the prisoner dream about most frequently? Of
bread, cake, cigarettes, and nice warm baths. The lack of
having these simple desires satisfied led him to seek wish-
fulfillment in dreams. Whether these dreams did any good is another matter; the dreamer had to wake from them to the reality of camp life, and to the terrible contrast between that and his dream illusions.
Hiding his mouth behind his upturned collar, the man
marching next to me whispered suddenly: "If our wives
could see us now! I do hope they are better off in their
camps and don't know what is happening to us."
That brought thoughts of my own wife to mind. And
as we stumbled on for miles, slipping on icy spots, support
ing each other time and again, dragging one another up
and onward, nothing was said, but we both knew: each of
us was thinking of his wife. Occasionally I looked at the sky,
where the stars were fading and the pink light of the morn
ing was beginning to spread behind a dark bank of clouds.
But my mind clung to my wife's image, imagining it with
an uncanny acuteness. I heard her answering me, saw her
smile, her frank and encouraging look. Real or not, her
look was then more luminous than the sun which was be
ginning to rise.
A thought transfixed me: for the first time in my life I
saw the truth as it is set into song by so many poets, pro
claimed as the final wisdom by so many thinkers. The truth
—that love is the ultimate and the highest goal to which man can aspire. Then I grasped the meaning of the greatest secret that human poetry and human thought and belief have to impart: The salvation of man is through love and in love. I understood how a man who has nothing left in this world still may know bliss, be it only for a brief moment, in the contemplation of his beloved. In a position of utter desolation, when man cannot express himself in positive action, when his only achievement may consist in enduring his sufferings in the right way—an honorable way— in such a position man can, through loving contemplation of the image he carries of his beloved, achieve fulfillment.
For the first time in my life I was able to understand the meaning of the words, "The angels are lost in perpetual contemplation of an infinite glory."
necessary mechanism of self-defense. Reality dimmed, and
all efforts and all emotions were centered on one task: pre
serving one's own life and that of the other fellow. It was
typical to hear the prisoners, while they were being herded
back to camp from their work sites in the evening, sigh with
relief and say, "Well, another day is over."
It can be readily understood that such a state of strain,
coupled with the constant necessity of concentrating on the
task of staying alive, forced the prisoner's inner life down
to a primitive level. Several of my colleagues in camp
who were trained in psychoanalysis often spoke of a
"regression" in the camp inmate—a retreat to a more
primitive form of mental life. His wishes and desires
became obvious in his dreams.
What did the prisoner dream about most frequently? Of
bread, cake, cigarettes, and nice warm baths. The lack of
having these simple desires satisfied led him to seek wish-
fulfillment in dreams. Whether these dreams did any good is another matter; the dreamer had to wake from them to the reality of camp life, and to the terrible contrast between that and his dream illusions.
Hiding his mouth behind his upturned collar, the man
marching next to me whispered suddenly: "If our wives
could see us now! I do hope they are better off in their
camps and don't know what is happening to us."
That brought thoughts of my own wife to mind. And
as we stumbled on for miles, slipping on icy spots, support
ing each other time and again, dragging one another up
and onward, nothing was said, but we both knew: each of
us was thinking of his wife. Occasionally I looked at the sky,
where the stars were fading and the pink light of the morn
ing was beginning to spread behind a dark bank of clouds.
But my mind clung to my wife's image, imagining it with
an uncanny acuteness. I heard her answering me, saw her
smile, her frank and encouraging look. Real or not, her
look was then more luminous than the sun which was be
ginning to rise.
A thought transfixed me: for the first time in my life I
saw the truth as it is set into song by so many poets, pro
claimed as the final wisdom by so many thinkers. The truth
—that love is the ultimate and the highest goal to which man can aspire. Then I grasped the meaning of the greatest secret that human poetry and human thought and belief have to impart: The salvation of man is through love and in love. I understood how a man who has nothing left in this world still may know bliss, be it only for a brief moment, in the contemplation of his beloved. In a position of utter desolation, when man cannot express himself in positive action, when his only achievement may consist in enduring his sufferings in the right way—an honorable way— in such a position man can, through loving contemplation of the image he carries of his beloved, achieve fulfillment.
For the first time in my life I was able to understand the meaning of the words, "The angels are lost in perpetual contemplation of an infinite glory."
sábado, 6 de marzo de 2010
domingo, 28 de febrero de 2010
Men and women are equal... bollocks!
Men and women are neither equal nor one better than the other, period. Men and women are certainly not the same, we have some similarities and we are part of the same species, yes, but we are different biologically and psychologically speaking and that is precisely what it makes it so interesting. This has been, to me, one of the most obnoxius, asinine comparisons, it is like comparing the Beatles to Pink Floyd; we know some prefer the Floyd, some prefer the Beatles, some prefer one of the two and some hate both.
Before any reader starts to give me a whole chauvinistic sermon on how I am completely wrong, I would like those people to be aware of a couple of facts regarding my background: I am a heterosexual man raised by two women —my mother and sister —, and I have grown to love and treasure women, but it suddenly reached the point where I would idealize girls and I would think no harm and no evil could be done from such divine creations —and I am not kidding —. I also grew thinking that pretty much every man in the world is a complete self-interested, sex-driven schmuck obsessed with power and with an amusing predisposition to violence and lack of conscience of species preservation —my mothers never spoke an unkind word towards men while I was growing up so this view of mine was not entirely influenced by them —. Since the beggining, I recognized women as “the other” and I certainly expected a lot from them, salvation included. As time went by, I had better friendship relationships with women rather than men and being sorrounded by girls and sharing experiences, I noticed that they enjoy sex, books, drinks, cigarretes, movies, et cetera —because they would always speak openly to me, without reservations —, as well as men do, not to mention I sensed the same malice as you would do in a man, but when women speak about such subjects their approach tends to be different even if the intention is practically the same. All of this gave me a peculiar focus on that whole gender struggle to the point that I could get my share of facts from both sides but specially the femenine side. For the sake of argument, it would be interesting to imagine the following scenario:
Picture a group of give firls and another of five boys. All of them are friends, nice-looking, socioeconomically stable, they go to the same school, they receive outstanding education, their families are balanced, they have no dangerous psychological profiles, they enjoy physical training, and they have the need to learn everything that is thrown to them, in a nutshell, they are a utopic, uniformed pack of goodness. As they grow up, hormones start to kick in, and being all of them so cerebral and considering they are not a bunch of sheeplike drones, one day they ask themselves a common —annoying— question: what is love? I am pretty sure you will get at least two different anwers in each group. The answers would somewhat converge at some point, there is no doubt, nevertheless, the approach or form of expression used by the women group would be discernible from the men group and, again, they are DIFFERENT. This, to me, is quite obvious and without question, one does not need to be a genious to understand that both men and women perceive the world differently. But this is the point where I want the reader to put his brain to work and to try to refute my statements: if two men have identical backgrounds most likely they will think the same, however, if a woman and a man share that background there is a slight chance that they will arrive to the same conclusion, yet again, some points will converge but will not be identical.
I could throw in some missing factors such as the invidual experience of every hypothetical individual —we already know the experience shapes our view of the world —, feminism, the macho culture and even race into the mix but we would end up in a quite tedious analysis.The deal here is that however coined the saying “men and women are equal” was not paying attention to what he or she said because “equal” means “the same”. If women are trying to be like men I think they will crash into a brick wall because it is not going to happen. Besides, why the need to be the same? I mean, learn to use your words because what you need is equity —a questionable term, by the way —. If women long for pure acknowledgement and integration —embracing the other— which are some of the root problems in ethnic quarrels , then it seems completely valid to me and they have my support, but to be THE SAME as the other kills the purpose and, to be frank, I am not interested in that kind of world.
On a final note, remember that is not everything men's fault, I mean, if you think about it, if women had been rulers of the world during the same time span as men have been, humanity would still sail in this vortex to oblivion but, perhaps, the velocity and manner in which we get sucked in would differ. Power without knowledge corrupts both man and woman. If we are talking about equity then learn to share the blame as it is part of it.
This reminds me and proves that the idiotic intent to produce and homogenous society is another way to control people and, therefore, I am totally against it. A place where no one questions or has no discussions because everybody agrees, and they watch the same films, they listen to the same music, they go to the same places, the same schools, an so on, it is stuck and doomed to perish. Diversity has always been my predilect inspiration when it comes to artistic expressions and it amuses me quite as much.
Before any reader starts to give me a whole chauvinistic sermon on how I am completely wrong, I would like those people to be aware of a couple of facts regarding my background: I am a heterosexual man raised by two women —my mother and sister —, and I have grown to love and treasure women, but it suddenly reached the point where I would idealize girls and I would think no harm and no evil could be done from such divine creations —and I am not kidding —. I also grew thinking that pretty much every man in the world is a complete self-interested, sex-driven schmuck obsessed with power and with an amusing predisposition to violence and lack of conscience of species preservation —my mothers never spoke an unkind word towards men while I was growing up so this view of mine was not entirely influenced by them —. Since the beggining, I recognized women as “the other” and I certainly expected a lot from them, salvation included. As time went by, I had better friendship relationships with women rather than men and being sorrounded by girls and sharing experiences, I noticed that they enjoy sex, books, drinks, cigarretes, movies, et cetera —because they would always speak openly to me, without reservations —, as well as men do, not to mention I sensed the same malice as you would do in a man, but when women speak about such subjects their approach tends to be different even if the intention is practically the same. All of this gave me a peculiar focus on that whole gender struggle to the point that I could get my share of facts from both sides but specially the femenine side. For the sake of argument, it would be interesting to imagine the following scenario:
Picture a group of give firls and another of five boys. All of them are friends, nice-looking, socioeconomically stable, they go to the same school, they receive outstanding education, their families are balanced, they have no dangerous psychological profiles, they enjoy physical training, and they have the need to learn everything that is thrown to them, in a nutshell, they are a utopic, uniformed pack of goodness. As they grow up, hormones start to kick in, and being all of them so cerebral and considering they are not a bunch of sheeplike drones, one day they ask themselves a common —annoying— question: what is love? I am pretty sure you will get at least two different anwers in each group. The answers would somewhat converge at some point, there is no doubt, nevertheless, the approach or form of expression used by the women group would be discernible from the men group and, again, they are DIFFERENT. This, to me, is quite obvious and without question, one does not need to be a genious to understand that both men and women perceive the world differently. But this is the point where I want the reader to put his brain to work and to try to refute my statements: if two men have identical backgrounds most likely they will think the same, however, if a woman and a man share that background there is a slight chance that they will arrive to the same conclusion, yet again, some points will converge but will not be identical.
I could throw in some missing factors such as the invidual experience of every hypothetical individual —we already know the experience shapes our view of the world —, feminism, the macho culture and even race into the mix but we would end up in a quite tedious analysis.The deal here is that however coined the saying “men and women are equal” was not paying attention to what he or she said because “equal” means “the same”. If women are trying to be like men I think they will crash into a brick wall because it is not going to happen. Besides, why the need to be the same? I mean, learn to use your words because what you need is equity —a questionable term, by the way —. If women long for pure acknowledgement and integration —embracing the other— which are some of the root problems in ethnic quarrels , then it seems completely valid to me and they have my support, but to be THE SAME as the other kills the purpose and, to be frank, I am not interested in that kind of world.
On a final note, remember that is not everything men's fault, I mean, if you think about it, if women had been rulers of the world during the same time span as men have been, humanity would still sail in this vortex to oblivion but, perhaps, the velocity and manner in which we get sucked in would differ. Power without knowledge corrupts both man and woman. If we are talking about equity then learn to share the blame as it is part of it.
This reminds me and proves that the idiotic intent to produce and homogenous society is another way to control people and, therefore, I am totally against it. A place where no one questions or has no discussions because everybody agrees, and they watch the same films, they listen to the same music, they go to the same places, the same schools, an so on, it is stuck and doomed to perish. Diversity has always been my predilect inspiration when it comes to artistic expressions and it amuses me quite as much.
sábado, 27 de febrero de 2010
Dios siempre presente en mi pensamiento...
Creo que esa asquerosa verborrea de “Dios bendiga a América” por fin surtió efecto, sino cómo podríamos explicar que les esté cargando el payaso a Haití y Chile. Sueño dorado del país vecino: adiós negros, adiós latinos. Como Dios ya escogió su favorito —porque siempre escoge a quien más le besa los pies— es de esperarse algún evento climático trascendente pronto en Medio Oriente, Korea, Rusia, Japón, China y posiblemente Francia, simplemente por ser tan... Franceses.
¿Será anticristiano no emocionarse por estos desastres? Me hago esta pregunta porque me considero un buen cristiano: me gusta el sufrimiento ajeno y jactarme de que siempre tengo la razón. Digo, si Dios controla a la naturaleza entonces Él metió su sagrada cucharota, y, por ende, esto ha de ser parte de su Plan Divino. Como sabemos, Dios jamás se equivoca, para darnos cuenta de ello sólo tenemos que observar lo civilizada y equilibrada que es la humanidad. Diosito lo tiene todo calculado, sin margen de error alguno claro está.
Bueno, disculpen, a veces tiendo a divagar acerca de los misteriosos caminos del Señor. Mi propósito no es cuestionar lo que me dice Mamá Iglesia —¡jamás!, yo como buen siervo con complejo de mujer subyugada, le temo a mi Señor porque me ama y también abusa física y psicológicamente de mí... Pero... ¡Me ama!—. Lo cual me recuerda, querer ser como Jesús... ¿No es blasfemia? ¿Dónde está la humildad? Querer ser como el hijo del Todoponderoso me parece un poquito ambicioso...
En fin, todo esto fue una excusa para decir: me caes bien, Dios, por cábula, cínico y voyerista.
¿Será anticristiano no emocionarse por estos desastres? Me hago esta pregunta porque me considero un buen cristiano: me gusta el sufrimiento ajeno y jactarme de que siempre tengo la razón. Digo, si Dios controla a la naturaleza entonces Él metió su sagrada cucharota, y, por ende, esto ha de ser parte de su Plan Divino. Como sabemos, Dios jamás se equivoca, para darnos cuenta de ello sólo tenemos que observar lo civilizada y equilibrada que es la humanidad. Diosito lo tiene todo calculado, sin margen de error alguno claro está.
Bueno, disculpen, a veces tiendo a divagar acerca de los misteriosos caminos del Señor. Mi propósito no es cuestionar lo que me dice Mamá Iglesia —¡jamás!, yo como buen siervo con complejo de mujer subyugada, le temo a mi Señor porque me ama y también abusa física y psicológicamente de mí... Pero... ¡Me ama!—. Lo cual me recuerda, querer ser como Jesús... ¿No es blasfemia? ¿Dónde está la humildad? Querer ser como el hijo del Todoponderoso me parece un poquito ambicioso...
En fin, todo esto fue una excusa para decir: me caes bien, Dios, por cábula, cínico y voyerista.
jueves, 25 de febrero de 2010
Mixy Ónes (II)
Definitivamente prefiero meterme al carro y no subirme. Ignoro porqué me parece más seguro estar dentro de un transporte automovilístico que encima del mismo. Supongo que es cosa de ser práctico...
En honor a aquellos individuos que siempre traen la verga en la boca
—No es así...
—¡Cómo vergas no!
—Pues provecho, pero no es así.
—¡Sepa la verga!
—¡Pues pregúntele! (por Sallesino)
—Estoy que me lleva la verga.
—Sólo espero que no se le olvide regresarte. (por Sallesino)
—¡Vale verga!
—¿Y a cuánto se está cotizando últimamente?
—Te digo que así no va...
—¡Ah, qué vergas!
—¿Otra vez con hambre?
—¡A la verga!
—Ahora no Robin, tenemos que ir por el batimóvil.
—¿Dónde está esa verga?
—Pues en el mismo lugar de siempre al menos que ya tenga pies...
—¡Vete a la verga!
—Esto es una Hummer, capitán, no un navío...
—¡Ponte vergas!
—No, gracias, Manuelín, yo no le hago al bukkake.
En honor a aquellos individuos que siempre traen la verga en la boca
—No es así...
—¡Cómo vergas no!
—Pues provecho, pero no es así.
—¡Sepa la verga!
—¡Pues pregúntele! (por Sallesino)
—Estoy que me lleva la verga.
—Sólo espero que no se le olvide regresarte. (por Sallesino)
—¡Vale verga!
—¿Y a cuánto se está cotizando últimamente?
—Te digo que así no va...
—¡Ah, qué vergas!
—¿Otra vez con hambre?
—¡A la verga!
—Ahora no Robin, tenemos que ir por el batimóvil.
—¿Dónde está esa verga?
—Pues en el mismo lugar de siempre al menos que ya tenga pies...
—¡Vete a la verga!
—Esto es una Hummer, capitán, no un navío...
—¡Ponte vergas!
—No, gracias, Manuelín, yo no le hago al bukkake.
viernes, 5 de febrero de 2010
Mixy Ónes (I)
- Recuerdo que alguna vez en clase me han dicho: '¡guarda silencio!'. Como nunca me gustó importunar a la clase con indisciplina, al instante me ponía a platicar con todo mundo y hacer toda cantidad de ruidos posibles, de esta manera yo guardaba el silencio y sacaba su opuesto. Después entendí que lo que quería decir mi querida maestra era 'guarda ruido y saca silencio' y no viceversa.
- Al contestar el teléfono es común escuchar la siguiente frase: '¿se encuentra Fulanita?', lo cual siempre me consterna un poco, si no te puedes encontrar entonces tienes serios problemas. Como soy un buen samaritano contesto: 'vaya, pues, no lo sé, déjame averiguar, eh, ¿Fulatina, te encuentras?, a ver, déjame ayudarte, estira tu brazo preferido hacia enfrente y con la palma hacia el techo quiero que, haciendo uso de la coyuntura de tu brazo, lo flexiones como es natural -¡no le puedo decir "flexiónala hacia ti" porque no sabe dónde está!- e intenta ubicar tu rostro, ¿lo has conseguido?, bien, ¡allí estás!" Con el tiempo he aprendido que el tener un espejo de bolsillo a la mano puede evitar tanta instrucción.
- '¿Me podría comunicar con Bencéfalo?' Esta gente se piensa que uno es algún tipo de terapeuta que puede ayudarle con su ineptitud verbal, 'déjeme decirle que los pedos que usted tenga con el mentado Bencéfalo son precisamente SUS pedos. Aprenda a ser más sensato si quiere entablar conversación con él'. Quizás el llamador podría haber empezado su llamada con un '¿me podría pasar a Bencéfalo', pero lo más probable es que algún chistosito diría que eso viola las leyes de la física. Igual podría decir '¿podría pasarle el auricular al licenciado Bencéfalo?' pero eso ya sería pasarse de tetilla masculina y, además, todos sabemos que sólo se lo 'pasarían' y no se lo 'darían'.
jueves, 21 de enero de 2010
Llueve mucho.
Hoy te digo que no salido de casa, ni siquiera he ido a trabajar gracias a la lluvia, misma que, por cierto, a mí me tiene maravillado. Ahora te digo que no he podido o más bien no he querido salir de mis aposentos por no preocupar a mi familia pues afuera, y desde hace varios días, hay un diluvio que tiene las vialidades hechas un desastre. Así es difícil transportarse a la escuela, al trabajo, con los amigos.
Gotas raudas contra el pavimento
a compás un tanto violento.
Marcha que marcha el tránsito lento,
gente que huye empapada del viento.
Al fluir de ríos cenagosos,
los diablos andan muy gustosos
por ver tantos cuerpos flotando morosos.
"Oh bello día que rayas en lo apocalíptico,
con tanto desastre y todo su lastre
de los daños habrá que hacer un tríptico!"
Desde el martes que Tláloc anda un tanto iracundo desatando su majestuosidad día y noche. Como eso de los sacrificios infantiles ya no está muy de moda y por ser órdenes de la nueva administración de sacerdotes que ha preferido sacrificar serpientes, muchos piensan que ya estamos fregados. Se han puesto las urnillas de voto en pro y contra de que se vuelvan a destripar párvulos, al fin y al cabo ya somos demasiados defecando en la misma bacinica. Yo me pregunté si los Dioses tienen jurisdicción, de ser así Tláloc ha cometido tremendo desacato. Basta decir que las ofrendas han sido reaprobadas y por cuestionar la ley divina, mañana me sacrifican...
Hoy te digo que no salido de casa, ni siquiera he ido a trabajar gracias a la lluvia, misma que, por cierto, a mí me tiene maravillado. Ahora te digo que no he podido o más bien no he querido salir de mis aposentos por no preocupar a mi familia pues afuera, y desde hace varios días, hay un diluvio que tiene las vialidades hechas un desastre. Así es difícil transportarse a la escuela, al trabajo, con los amigos.
***
Viendo esta lluvia, cual río fluyendo desde el cielo a la tierra, rememoro los primeros días de enero en la Bella Airosa bajo una llovizna y acompañado de una duendecilla. ¡Qué recuerdo tan turbio! Con el contraste de tan bella lluvia, que ahora mismo acontece, se me confunden las emociones y se me viene a la mente un poema cursi:Gotas raudas contra el pavimento
a compás un tanto violento.
Marcha que marcha el tránsito lento,
gente que huye empapada del viento.
Al fluir de ríos cenagosos,
los diablos andan muy gustosos
por ver tantos cuerpos flotando morosos.
"Oh bello día que rayas en lo apocalíptico,
con tanto desastre y todo su lastre
de los daños habrá que hacer un tríptico!"
***
Resulta que desde hace un par de días se la han vivido los ángeles de orgía tras orgía y sus divinos humores han estado cayendo por toda la ciudad pero la gente, siendo tan santurrona y mojigata, se ha alarmado y ha hecho un tremendo berrinche por la falta de moralidad; nadie sale de su casa por pavor lúbrico.***
viernes, 15 de enero de 2010
Segunda Carta
Hay otro suceso que me tiene perplejo: el fenomeno de interpretación o decodificación. Uno es el que escribe, el que codifica y, si la suerte es tal, hay de otro que se tome el tiempo de sortear palabras y tratar de asimilar los significados. Y en ese proceso -al cual podría dedicarle páginas y páginas de divagaciones- hay algo que se pierde invariablemente, me gustaría llamarlo "traición del acto". El escritor cuando se dispone con su puño y letra a forjar mundos, se le es impuesto un limbo entre su pluma y el papel -lugar donde titubean las musas-, y en aquél se extravian mil y un detalles que ni se les tendrá pudor de mención. Lo que se ha salvado, es decir, lo que se ha logrado plasmar no quedará intacto, pues le falta ser mutado por el ojo del lector a excepción, claro está, de que el mensaje sea de suerte obvia y certera. Y en esto recae lo que considero el atractivo de la escritura: la nula unilateralidad, esto es, el autor no es más que primer lector de su creación y los sucesivos la recrean una y otra vez. Sin duda, la más bella de las traiciones pues atenta contra el ego del creador.
Esto hace preguntarme lo que tú has de pensar, ¿para ti qué sería mejor: una carta directa y de sobrio talante o una llena de delicias lingüísticas y metáforas? Hay que tener bastante habilidad en la primera si se quiere transmitir propiamente su mensaje y hay que ser un recto pensador para poder forjar la última. En caso de que el redactor tuviese destreza a placer, ¿tiene la culpa el lector por amedrentarse por lo leído? Me temo que ni peco de sagaz ni mucho menos de recto pensador, pero sí un tanto en calidad de lunático y he aquí la razón de que mis escritos sean de lo más anacrónicos y rimbombantes o, en palabras coloquiales -que por cierto adoro tanto como al lenguaje culto- sean puro choro viejo y mareador.
Buena luna...
Esto hace preguntarme lo que tú has de pensar, ¿para ti qué sería mejor: una carta directa y de sobrio talante o una llena de delicias lingüísticas y metáforas? Hay que tener bastante habilidad en la primera si se quiere transmitir propiamente su mensaje y hay que ser un recto pensador para poder forjar la última. En caso de que el redactor tuviese destreza a placer, ¿tiene la culpa el lector por amedrentarse por lo leído? Me temo que ni peco de sagaz ni mucho menos de recto pensador, pero sí un tanto en calidad de lunático y he aquí la razón de que mis escritos sean de lo más anacrónicos y rimbombantes o, en palabras coloquiales -que por cierto adoro tanto como al lenguaje culto- sean puro choro viejo y mareador.
Buena luna...
Ni siquiera había caído que ya llevo un año publicando aquí, lo cual me tiene un tanto sorprendido pues el tiempo ha pasado bastante rápido. Tampoco he dicho palabra alguna sobre mi cambio radical de mentalidad, consecuencia de mi viaje a la Ciudad de México, Querétaro y Pachuca... Pues bien, que así quede, lo mejor de esas experiencias es que ya están tatuadas en mi ser y de seguro se manifestarán en uno que otro escrito que llegase a publicar.
Suscribirse a:
Comentarios (Atom)