for fuck's sake

Don't talk assuming they want to hear you, because they don't. They do not give a crap.

You don't need to be nicer just because you should. You don't need a reason to be fed up and angry. You don't owe anyone explanations, unless deep down you really feel you do.

You are the one who makes the choices.

It's the world who's fucking crazy.

Chain Letters

"The Chain Letter to the Ephebians. Forget Your Gods. Be Subjugated. Learn to Fear. Do not break the chain -- the last people who did woke up one morning to find fifty thousand armed men on their lawn."

Small Gods, Terry Pratchett

Anna Karenina

(No pretendo que nadie comente esto xD, pero tenía que escribir algo y a lo mejor me sirve para el examen del martes)

The amazing thing about Tolstoi's novel (the only 'real novel' he ever wrote, after his own words; apparently nothing to do with War and Peace) is his insight in human nature. A sociological essay or a study on Freudian theories will never achieve the accuracy of this portrait of our emotional attributes.

His description of the late nineteenth-century gentlefolk shows a complexity that goes against everything I would have believed about upper-classes from my 'friend-of-the-people' point of view. Those who I believed to be a superficial, hypocritical bunch of snobs that despise the peasants and the workers dissolved once I read a third of the book. The judgement the reader places upon the characters gradually transforms along the novel into a complete identification with them. 

We tend to think today that living in a strong religious environment makes everyone think and act in the same way. Either people are moral and behave well, or they carry a life of wickedness similar to Mr Hyde's, attending voyeurist brothels for the rich. But inside the hierarchical bubble everything goes on the same way as outside. We all have the same weaknesses, and we love the same things, and yet we are all so different from one another that we fear we'll always be lonely. We cripple everyone through our actions, and in turn they do the same to us.

The style of the prose can seem a bit old at first, logically, but it's just the right one. Without those exact words the meaning they want to convey would be lost. The indication of all the little hints in the characters' behaviour are wonderful to discover, and their later explanation through what they tell each other (and what they don't) are shocking, enlightening or depressing. Just like real life. Only with expensive wine and grand houses.

It's a brilliant book, a freaking classic, a must for anyone that calls himself a bookworm. Which I think is one of the proudest labels we can ever hope for (:

the time has come.

Some porn entirely dedicated to the one who asked for it (Ayes, that is). Please, don't come on the screen. It would be pretty disgusting.

If anyone reads this, good luck for what's left of the Bacs >__<

belle y sebastian o los new pornographers

Estás acorralada, aprisionada por quienes te aman. Se lavan los dientes mientras tú haces pis; tu intimidad violada. La música es tu remanso de paz, porque te mete dentro de ti misma y te abre a la vez que te protege. Gritan algo o ponen la radio, y tu intimidad desgarrada sangra.

Te sientas, notas tu carne pegada al hueso y eres consciente de la piel que la recoge, y sabes que es frágil pero resistente. Mueves las muñecas, te miras las manos y las uñas mordidas, y eres toda tú pero no eres, porque estás dentro del músculo y las vísceras sin que sean una parte inherente de ti. Te notas los brazos suaves y los codos rasposos y desagradables, las orejas sucias y la lengua pegada a los dientes, y no te cambiarías por nadie.

Intentas explicarte y en cuanto escribes dos palabras notas cómo se te escapa. Te entristece pensar que el no poder contárselo a nadie te va a condenar a la soledad eterna. Amar es poder contarlo, posiblemente.

To her daughter

Things that tell you where home is
Wherever memory sticks. That house window. That tree out front.
The red-necked stint, light as an aerogram, flies the Pacific from top to bottom and back again, and always believes it will find home.
The easiness of strangers who ask, What do you know?
The noise of a bus changing gear two streets away where the road begins to climb all the way back to a moment in childhood.
The high winds that make everything windblown (paper and leaves) seem personal.
The ancient sea chart that looks like a string shipping bag containing lines to do with currents and prevailing winds.
The smell of rotten fruit.
The smell of fresh mown grass and lawnmower oil.
The holy quiet of a man who has lived for seventy-five years on the one island and has nothing left to say.


The history of the world
Step one. You need a lot of water - from above and below. The water of heaven fills the lakes and rivers. Now add equal amounts of darkness and daylight. While there is light the sun draws the water back up to restock heaven.
Step two. Man is created out of dust. At the end of his life he returns to dust. Restocking again.
Step three. The most important ingredient of all. Take a rib bone and create a woman to keep the man company, righteous and fed. Add a spoonful of sugar for pleasure and bitter herbs for tears. There will be plenty of both, and the rest just follows on from there.


The history of memory
I miss island laughter. White people don't laugh in the same way. They laugh in a private, sniggering way. I have tried to teach your father to laugh properly and he is learning. But he does not practise enough.
I miss the warm sea. Every day us kids used to jump off the wharf. But never on Sundays. You know why.
I miss the colour blue, and fruit bats at dusk.
I miss hearing the thud of a coconut falling.


Broken dreams
The girl next to where I grew up used to sleepwalk. It was amazing how far she would get - still fast asleep. One time she paddled a canoe out to the reef, came in and went back to her sleeping mat. Or else you'd see her marching up the beach like she was late for church.
Once we found her in out house sitting up to the table, her eyes closed, while every other part of her suggested she was waiting to be brought a cold drink. I was going to wake her but my mum stopped me. What if she is dreaming...? Dreams are private, she said. And she is right. A dream is a story that no one else will get to hear or read.
Thnks to dreams, in the history of the galaxy the world has been reinvented more often than there are stars.
The girl in our house though was probably just dreaming about jumping off the wharf - and that's okay too.


How to find your soul
If you tell your mother a lie you may do nothing more than blush, grow a bit hot under your skin. But later, at two in the morning, sitting in that dumb car you will begin to feel deceitful.
All that feeling has to go somewhere and it does. It has been stored in a vault deep in your body. Don't ask a doctor to find it. Like your father they are next to useless on these matters.
You need to know about hell. Don't ask your father. His geography is limited. Hell is less important to him than London or Paris. All you do is eat and shit and take photos in those places. Heaven and hell are the cities of the soul! That's where you grow!


Your shoelaces
Your shoelaces are useless on their own. They need a shoe before they can work. A human being without God is just flesh and blood. A house without God is an empty house waiting for the devil to move in. You need to understand boundaries.


Boundaries
Braids remind us that sometimes it is hard to know where goodness ends and badness begins.

From Mr Pip, by Lloyd Jones

Interrail

Sí y trois fois bien B)

Soy mayor de edad, donaré sangre en cuanto pueda y tenemos el viaje de fin de curso más o menos montado. Diez días, dos noches en cada sitio:

Berlín




Varsovia




Cracovia




Praga

Por unos 500€, todo incluido. Esto es molar y lo demás gilipolleces. Buenas noches.