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felt like typing

It's been a while. I have 18 minutes before midnight and I wish I could type something interesting in this time. I don't think so. I just felt like typing something. I don't have shit to say. Still I will publish this. I have to go to sleep soon and work tomorrow. Friday... Nothing really planned except noodles.

Nobody will show up.. and that's great. I'd like to have a glass of cold whisky. But then what?

Better keep the energy. This 65 hour weeks are not that bad, if I organize my time well.

I have lots of pending tasks. I have to make a list.

Out.

meaninglessness

I just sent an email to two people who have been emailing me about some political discussion in argentina. It is so absurdly localized. Everything on it. The words, the names, the places. It mentions twitter here and there. But honestly, I didn't even read through the whole thing. I just don't want to receive it. It's not such a big deal to set a filter and have the person's emails go down the drain without touching my inbox.


So I guess I'm still the same kind of person. Somewhere inside the glorified carcass that carries me around, I still think that you can change shit by sending an email. I used to be like that person. I used to think that sending my condemnations, my opinions, the videos I thought were thoughtful and brought something to "the discussion," was useful. But it really is not. Not for people that don't know you. Not for people who work their asses off to keep their families safe, or have to put up with corporate laws, unpaid wages, two jobs, the dirty thirty, racism, and ... well all the other people. The different people. Like you. Putting up with you is a big fucking deal.

How blind can we be..? How arrogant that we think everybody cares about the same shit we do. Kids in Africa? political candidates? Zapatistas? Atenco? Rapes? Twitter anarchist in jail? Afghanistan? Palestine? Iraq? Journalists online? Paco Stanley's death?

I think I know who the sender of that email is. She seems to be everywhere yet nowhere at the same time. I think it's this woman that has a band, she is in Argentina. I asked her to send me her cd and she never did it. She didn't care to email me about that. Yet she clicks on my name when she has to mass email her discussions with who knows who. I could be offended. She has lots of followers. I don't know how I ever got to follow her and I don't think she even reads what I type at all. Every once in a while between fashion criticism and pop music rants, she will start giving this very vocal speeches... online. Meaningless to me. Like when I was 6 and I didn't understand left and right. I had to look at a stain on the sleeve of my Tae Kwan Do uniform to know what was what... and well... political spectrum was an uncharted, unknowable territory for me. So what the fuck? Why am I typing this out?

Meaningless. I wish I could wrap my discourse around something worthy of your attention. I wish you could too. But it doesn't really matter. Because we are fucked, and just like money, and work, and capitalism and possessions. This is all we have in front of us. A system that allows us to *think* we are worth something and we have a purpose, or makes us think that we don't have a purpose so that we think we have to fight to prove we do, and so on.

We are just corpses. Stories. Distances in kilometers up to the thousands. We wish we mattered, and we wish shit mattered to us more. But it doesn't. It's just an excuse to be or say or appear to mean something.

I know you get the idea. And I am just using my keyboard -not even you- just my keyboard to pass some time while something magnificent and magical comes my way. I will get tired before that happens, just like you will stop reading way before you reach this paragraph, just like I did with that lame ass fucking "discussion" on the emails I received. Like the mailing list of that Colombian kindergarten that, for some reason, thought I was interested in the next parents meeting in some shit hole community that will probably be destroyed by war or whatever is the next adventure they have coming. I live a boring life. And this is, in a way, a shit hole too, because I have no way or reason to be excited.

All I have is this. A few paragraphs with rants and sparks of something to discuss. But the discussion is dead. I say it is. And you have to accept it. Because you don't care to change your point of view, and neither do I.

Ok. It's funny how you can go around the same idea. Nothingness. Meaninglessness. Say it a thousand different (actually repetitive) ways.

Oh yeah.. I asked them not to send me an email anymore because I don't care. The revolution. The discussion. The Struggle. Your Opinion... Whenever it happens, it won't have a name. You won't be able to tell, and it will probably not benefit you specifically or the world in general.

Over... and Out.

Testing

uninspiration

It's been a good few weeks. I have been caught on the fact that I don't like communicating too much with people when there's nothing good to tell.

There is also the good things to tell that I rather not share with the majority of people. I have lots of good news lately.

And I guess that ends it all. I don't feel like writing what I was going to write.

But I can assure you it's better while it's just a piece of my mind than when I put it out there, naked and constrained, to try to amuse you.

Tetro and the hatred against famous people.

I have been thinking whether I should only post opinions about movies that I liked. I'm an easy guy for the most part, however I tend to lose it and make people uncomfortable when I don't like something.

So here I go:

Yesterday my girl took me to the movies. This time she chose what to watch in order to balance things out, since it's always me that bugs her to go see the movie I want.

So she chose Tetro, by Francis Ford Coppola.

'Tetro' is a cinematographic essay on fame. Beautifully photographed in HD, goes from the sobriety of the simple life to the pornographic shots and angles of the nauseating spotlight and beyond.

Tetro, the man, hates fame and success. And everybody else around him seems to be used to it, until his little brother arrives thanks to a malfunctioning engine on his ship and starts asking questions. Although he appears tough, Tetro is a potentially charming guy. The past makes us all rigid, we need to toughen up to survive. There are no bad intentions from little brother or Tetro's friends. There is only love and care, as Miranda (Maribel Verdú's character) puts it: Tetro's success is important for all of them; This, however makes it all the more disgusting. He doesn't want to be saved. He loves (and I would too) the beautiful, quiet days in La Boca, Argentina, in that fresh apartment, out surrounded by the colonial architecture that harbors so many stories, through the paving stoned streets, the easy life.

So as we cope with his little brother's naivete, pushy love and eventual betrayal, we're taken from the visual simplicity of Tetro's life to the big fancy lights, the flawless productions, the big personalities, the stone-heavy opinions. Tetro was mystery and that made him great. The reality of his drama destroys him. Like it does to us all. A story written through a mirror, in code, so it should never be read.

His conflict appears to be a tantrum for a little while, but we understand throughout the story that there is more to this than simple rebellion. He has a right to be angry. Nobody understands that. They all push him into this stupid adventure and they end up feeling a little bit guilty for it. Fame and compassion, when put into perspective, can be destructive little devils, and turn their perpetrators into pathetic arrogant creatures, regardless of their righteous intentions.

This movie is full of metaphors and symbolism in its imagery. It's a beautiful homage to theater, and the pain and the ridicule of solidarity. The title kept me thinking of its meaning, the possible word play, since Tetro sounds a little bit like 'tétrico', a spanish word that could be translated as 'grim' or 'gloomy'. It also sounds similiar to 'teatro' (theater/play)

I related closely to the paradox formed by the hunger for success and recognition and the phobia against the public.

Who wants to be liked by or get approval from the big fat cats? They are ruthless. And yes, that is a virtue. We don't want that. We want to be just normal.

Also, while I was still living in Mexico, I heard about La Colifata, a radio station formed by patients of a mental hospital in Argentina. This atmospheric element plays a short but important part in this movie, which contributed to the very special tone the film had for me. It wasn't absolutely fictional, yet it didn't feel at all like a documentary or an unnatural moment when the guy with the funny accent was sharing his experience.

I liked it. I felt cool, angry, lost and redeemed.

Thanks.