Eclectic Lesson

Swap

Naively
You reached me out on summer nights
Leave it under
A veiled fantasy

Selflessly
I opened you the door
And gave you a home
When you needed it the most

In my borders
There was no other voice but yours
In disorder
Where nothing mattered very much

And spent time thinking of time
To give and love and change it all
And passed the day in sunny haste
Reminded us what made us tall

Through rocky roads
We found ourselves reading into
Words in code
Deciphering into what to do

And burned my hopes with limited scopes
That tried to heal a mortal wound
With certain grasp that we would swap
Just like our feelings would

So now I´m

Chanting love songs
To a madness in your ear
From a lonely chair at home
Higher spirits now all gone

Smoking heavy
With your music on repeat
And the usual ghosts restored
Ever haunting at my door

Regarding the Happiness of Loved Ones

Abigail asked me about my father last week. Just a simple question that could’ve been easily answered with “Yes” or “No”, but her inquiry left me frozen and dumbfounded. Never before I would’ve guessed those three words would become my permanent weak spot.

-”Is he happy?”

A special kind of frustration follows me around for being unable to answer that question. Part of me knows for a fact I will never be able to do so. Am I wrong for that? Am I an ungrateful son? Are we all selfish for living our lives despite others people’s sacrifices?

There’s a particular memory stockpiled in the deepest corner of my mind. Back when we were kids and my parents had divorced, and my mother had kept the house, along with our custody. We rode with out father in his old car, back to his house in the slums. We never got to see the inside of his house, but that was enough to shake our insides for the rest of our lives. I know at least part of me died that day.

I find myself frequently making up fantasies about my father. In those dreams I am older, wiser, and less self-centered. My father still smiles, but his hair is grayer than ever. He continues working on the family business, downtown. I visit him on a busy day and surprise him with a pair of plane tickets. I ask him to come with me on a trip around the world, for which I had been saving for years now. He declines at first, ashamed of my offer, but I persuade him to come.

We pack our bags and head off to the unknown for the first time in our lives. There are so many places ahead of us; so many arrivals and departures, so many unfamiliar faces and unexpected situations. I try my best to translate for him and talk him about the architecture of each city we visit, but I never disappoint him, no matter how much I screw up.

But Dad is an old man now. His legs can’t take much walking, so our trips are short-lived. We sit down on public benches each time he gets tired, gazing at the cityscape. We return to our hotel room early everyday, and have long talks before going to bed. Still, as I lie in bed awake each night, I discover that each and every day we share is golden.

This is where the fantasy dissolves, as if it had run short of film. And one tricky question spawns many more:

Is it ever too late for us?
Can we really escape from our squalor?
Is it all just a fantasy I try to impose on others, so they can be happy?
Is our happiness just a plane ticket away, and can it be achieved so easily?

And even trickier answers emerge:

Perhaps it’s only me that’s broken.
Maybe I’m just projecting my cracks on my loved ones.
And fixing is just a hobby.

Regardless of the outcome, I know there is an ultimate truth that I will carry on my back forever. That most of the joys in our lives are the costs of others´. They deserve a chance too. I know someday those two plane seats will be taken.

But I too, know, how much more I owe than I can give.

On Campus

There’s a knot in my head, Mrs. Todd
It’s been for years now, advisor, I feel lost
Sit me in your office, say
Talk my worries away
I´ll be asleep
On my feet

Rich and pampered blondies talk with ease
Girls as rude and surly as they please
I´ll be the veiled fanatic
For those charismatic
Lies they imply
I’ll form a line

Speak of them in higher tone, that’s OK
Behind closed doors that’s what we all say
Wait for their consent, darling
For they’ll be watching
And we’ll just wait
They’ll seal our fate

There’s no place for empathics in this race
Told them ‘bout equality, they were amazed
Told them ‘bout contrast
Asked them how long it’ll last
And they just sneered
And shed a tear

The Abyss

There´s a song I used to sing back when I was younger. It is calm and beautiful, but its notes are so feeble. They hang around in this gray-lit atmosphere and linger quietly before fading into dust. I still hear it every now and then; it echoes inside my ears, and speaks of some greater feeling I have never known.

There’s a book buried beneath my memories. Whose pages have flown time after time into the neglected corners of my mind. Whose pages have flown again and again and landed shredded beyond all recognition. But the ones that remain still tell the story that I wish to hide; that one time, I did believe in a future where she and I could live in most blissful fantasy. And such were my futile attempts to make it all come true.

There’s a door I keep locked in the back of my head, behind dark walls and twisting corridors that smell of old. It leads to a cliff and an abyss which bottom cannot be perceived. A place from which I gaze down with thoughts of abandon, two steps away from that absolute exit.

Never have I lunged into that abyss. It remains fixed only in my thoughts, scaring every bit of my body to its core. And how strange it is to be condemned to the summit- and hope that there is some kind of grim end at the bottom. For it would be so very tragic that I remained forever terrified of that jump, when there was nothing to fear at all.

Leave The Lights On

String me along
I keep my hands closed
And when you say stop
I stop

Write your love
In 40 characters or more
And when you say go
I go

But you know

I´d wind at your door for no reason at all
Where two more drinks won´t break my fall
And goodness forbid,
Sometimes I still bid
On your return
On your return

Blink an eye
We´re liars- you and I
And when you say come
I come

Contradict
I´ll be your frequent pick
And when you say no
I know

Before you go please leave the lights on
Your twilight escape, by tomorrow´ll be gone
For you and your looks
I would write fifty books
But not today
No, not today

Reflex

Abigail smells of adult fragrance,
Of automobile leather,
Of cigarette smoke,
And cubicle fever
She feels foreign, but inviting,
Sheltered in wrapping paper,
Upholstered in all sides by post stamps,
Royal seals and “Fragile” labels

Found her in the twilight
Of a movie theater
In her dark heavens
From my noble underworld,
And protected by the fabricated night
I followed, and hunted,
And feasted on her careless demeanor
From the corner of my eyes

In dying sunlight, I grew younger
Young and foolish, quite tongue-tied
Throwing stones, every now and then,
To keep her ghost awake,
To keep that yearning at bay,
And portrayed indifference
In fear of being caught imploring,
Praying, requesting
For a fragment of absolute, perennial attention
The remnants of some long-lost,
Willfully-forgotten,
Notion of affection

Drank the night away
With wine and hopes,
Each one different from the other
And spoke with ashtray breath,
And blackened teeth
That spoke of loss and misunderstanding
And everything that placed her
So far away from me

Though I meant to stay apart,
I was pulled and pinned
To her permanent spot,
From which I orbited ´til dawn,
Caressed by her lullabies,
Singing me to sleep,
Chanting that we shouldn´t be
Closer than that

And I sank into anticipated sorrow,
Knowing there would be no love, nor lust,
No word nor letter,
That would bring her back to me
In my dreams, I welcome her back
From her voyage to the void,
And her baggage makes no harm
But heals our muted heartache.

Guesswork

Guesswork was our civil law
Our greatest skill and biggest flaw
And all the things I never saw
The gears have spun
And I am left perplexed

For every bit’s obscurity
The words I write, the things you see
The noises you always mishear
A puzzled root
Grew on my sounds and texts

And I did found it distressing
Semi-bleak, semi-depressing
That all this time
You have left me guessing

And you’ve been my curse and blessing
A riddle I have been obsessing
Of, but all this time
You have left me guessing

Guesswork was our mother tongue
Our dearest book, our favorite song
And I admit that I was wrong
Three years have gone
I’m still hesitating

A polysemic property
That lived inside you and me
Refused to do things properly
It broke our hopes
But our stories were amazing

Guesswork was our twisted plot
A haze in which we shared a spot
A crime in which we both got caught
Permanent fog
We should have stayed indoors

When vagueness turned to daily news
Began a chase for hints and clues
And I learned to play the blues
Some kind of love
You just can’t buy in stores.

Abigail’s Skeletons

(Fragment from Life In Reverse)

-Thanks for coming. I’ve been needing someone to talk to someone for a very long time.

-Yeah, it looks like you’ve been holding something inside for too long. I can tell for the way you talk and the words you speak.

-Right. And the only person I could think about was you. I know there’s catching-up to do, and stuff…

-Nevermind that. Just tell me what’s bothering you.

It was easier than I thought to let my brain rest for a while and just uncork my mouth to let these words flow by themselves, words that have been tormenting me far too long; far too many nights, far too many journeys, way more fingers than I could possibly use to count.

-It’s Abigail.

Corey’s eyes show no change. He knew, but wouldn’t make the first move, not until I spoke. He’s always been respectful in that matter. A silent agreement knew by both.

-I see.

-Everybody tells me the same thing: ‘get rid of her, if it’s just too much for you’. But it’s not that easy. I’m sure you can understand, you’ve been through something like this too. I know you’re the only one that can give me a real useful advice.

Moment of silence. Four-second thoughts.

-Ok. First thing’s first. Tell me about Abigail. What’s the matter with her? ‘Cause I know she’s not the usual type of girl you like. I can tell she’s different, but how?

-(Sigh) Abigail.. you know, it’s kinda hard to talk about her.

-You can keep the intimacy issues to yourself; just tell me what bothers you.

-It’s not that. She’s just.. hard to describe.

-That’s funny. You know… anyone could think you knew Abigail well enough by now. You hang out with her almost daily, don’t you?

-That’s exactly the point. I don’t feel like I know her anymore. The more I’m with her, the less I understand her psyche. I had a better idea of her world when I just met her.

-So it’s a matter of “Life in Reverse”?

-Exactly.

A two-second breath, some cigarette smoke into the lungs. Then words find a way like a combination of numbers for a vault.

-Abigail is. Abigail is Pandora’s Box. She holds a hundred terrible moments inside. She’s a repertoire of these spiky little fucked-up things in life. Every malady the human soul can hold, she’s been through it. And those things have shattered her inner structure.

Pause again. Coffee.

-She’s this glass armor.. this eroded, crackled statue, re-painted gold.

Corey thinks. He looks amused by the description of this girl he’s never seen before, but has heard a lot about.

-I think I get your point. She’s more than you bargained for. You’ve been grave-digging, and now you found skeletons.

-It’s more than just skeletons. We all have our skeletons buried deep. These are solid, really disturbing skeletons.

-I never thought skeletons could damage a relationship so much.

-You know… they say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. And they say that ‘cause, even if the cover looks thorn and dusty, the book might hold a great story inside. Abigail’s book is backwards. The cover is beautiful, but when you read her story, you just don’t know what to do with it. If you get to the bottom, you kinda want to help. You’d like this sad story to have a nice ending. But you just don’t know if you’d be able to handle the overwhelming literary flow.

-It looks to me like you’re focusing too much on the cracks. Sure, Abigail’s had some bumps along the ride. We all have. One doesn’t choose to carry these cracks, but you get along. Just… relax, man.

- I can’t just ignore them either. Imagine you buy a cake, and the one you want is completely battered and smashed. Sure, it will taste the same, but we all want a nice cake, don’t we?

Slightly Strange 101

I got my first name from my father and my middle name from my great-grandfather. Those two were not related, by the way. My mother just liked to mix up names from both families.

My great-grandfather was a former journalist, turned businessman.
I found out about his newspaper when I was about 17 years old. Before then, I suppose I had never thought about his past life, as if he had been an old man all the time.
This man had accumulated great wealth in his life but dressed simply and behaved modestly. It was the rest of the family who were all pretentious and vain. He passed away a few years ago, and I felt sad but did not cry, for he always felt so distant to me.

My father is also a modest guy. He’s a man of few words, so I’ve never been able to know his view of the world and his life in general. I just suppose things haven’t turned out the way he planned. Sometimes I think about people I know and the amenities and luxuries they have, and I get jealous for not matching their wealth. But then I think about my father and remember the virtue of humbleness. Besides, I believe he has the right to live a good life, and I don’t think he deserves any of my arrogant demands.

I am twenty-one years old. I have a mild obsession with time. I hate waiting and wasting time that could otherwise have been spent on productive affairs. I tidy my desk every time I feel I have too much time on my hands, and I do my laundry when I get bored. When I stay indoors on weekends I get the feeling that I age twice as fast, and that my old self would kick my ass for wasting my youth. My personal philosophy is that I’ll have nothing to look forward to when I get older, so my present duty is to seed the memories that will keep me going later in life.

Friends have called me cynic, apathetic, self-centered and rude. Ex-girlfriends have called me bitter and arrogant. Relatives have called me calm and collected, stating that I am “a bit of the silent type, like my father”. Up to this day, I don’t know which description, if any, is the most accurate.

2010 in review

The stats helper monkeys at WordPress.com mulled over how this blog did in 2010, and here’s a high level summary of its overall blog health:

The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads This blog is doing awesome!.

Crunchy numbers

The Leaning Tower of Pisa has 296 steps to reach the top. This blog was viewed about 1,100 times in 2010. If those were steps, it would have climbed the Leaning Tower of Pisa 4 times

In 2010, there were 12 new posts, growing the total archive of this blog to 23 posts. There were 64 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 6mb. That’s about 1 pictures per week.

The busiest day of the year was October 1st with 36 views. The most popular post that day was Hello world!.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were facebook.com, twitter.com, setlist.fm, observadoresdeestrellas.blogspot.com, and mail.live.com.

Some visitors came searching, mostly for missile cartoon, cartoon missile, eclectic lesson, missle cartoon, and iron bench lamppost.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.

Hello world! July 2009
2 comments

Media Bombing or: How Things Really Are February 2010
2 comments

Marseille June 2010
2 comments

Sunday Blues March 2010
1 comment

#26 December 2009
3 comments