I · am · nobody · I · have · nothing · to · do · with · explosions

In memoriam

Hermano, hoy estoy en el poyo de la casa.
Donde nos haces una falta sin fondo¡
Me acuerdo que jugábamos esta hora, y que mamá
nos acariciaba: "Pero, hijos..."
Ahora yo me escondo,
como antes, todas estas oraciones
vespertinas, y espero que tú no des conmigo.
Por la sala, el zaguán, los corredores.
Después, te ocultas tú, y yo no doy contigo.
Me acuerdo que nos hacíamos llorar,
hermano, en aquel juego.
Miguel, tú te escondiste
una noche de agosto, al alborear;
pero, en vez de ocultarte riendo, estabas triste.
Y tu gemelo corazón de esas tardes
extintas se ha aburrido de no encontrarte. Y ya
cae sombra en el alma.
Oye, hermano, no tardes
en salir. Bueno? Puede inquietarse mamá.

Cesar Vallejo

Today I am exhausted. I always say that. I am not sure what it is, but that today I feel it. I got up early, at nine but still did not get much done. I am sure it is this place, and living with my parents, and not being able to breath. Today I got up at nine but I cannot get things done in the morning, the sun in the morning is of an acidic lemon yellow that burns through my eyes and stings my skin. I like the sun after noon, when its yellow becomes a soft cadmium that stretches shadows and softens eyelids in warm rippened hues. 

Today I went to my class, although I am beginning to become tired of that place, of those people, of the things they say and make, and I worked on finishing a stone I had been struggling with. I am tired of everything being a struggle, but today it was fine because it was close to finished, it was its last day. I think now, of all the new ones. I think of the few moments of rest I get when I am not questioning everything I do. There is a small day of rest when something has been finished for better or for worse. On those days when I have finally managed to disentangle myself from that which I am making, when it isn't suffocating me with its lines and strokes I look and I can finally see a bit, because I have moved closer to its outer edge. I will then see presences I had not invited, I will not acknowledge it fully as my own but I will accept that I have spun something out into the world. On that day of rest I will quietly acquiesce to our lack of control over most matters, I will say that to console myself when I am disappointed about my work: when I think my work is too childish, or that I am taking steps backwards. I think now of all the pages that I will have to fill in order to get even close to what I am really meaning to say, in order to decipher myself what I am meant to say, and I realize my rest is over. 

I talked to my instructor about moving into the etching room on Mondays and Tuesdays, because somehow I have had these drawings floating in the back of my mind for months, they were not clear then, but now that they have condensed almost fully I see them as very linear, and sharp lines are much more natural to etching than to lithography. Another reason I want to move into the etching room on the days I have mentioned is because there is a girl that comes in on Mondays and Tuesdays who does silkscreen and who is horrible to me. I do not understand why she would be, but I just want to be left alone to work quietly and am not interested in being bothered. She reminds me of someone from high school too, nobody in particular, but somehow the way she dresses and acts, her insecurity and unnecessary meanness all make me feel like I am 16 years old again, and I am too old even for my 23 years to be reminded of 16. 

I guess that is all. I had planned to answer letters today. I am sorry, I began but I realized I was just whining. I thought it was better if I just posted it here, livejournal seems like a better place for that.

‘Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?’

‘That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,’ said the Cat.

‘I don’t much care where—’ said Alice.

‘Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,’ said the Cat.

‘—so long as I get somewhere,’ Alice added as an explanation.

‘Oh, you’re sure to do that,’ said the Cat, ‘if you only walk long enough.’

Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question. ‘What sort of people live about here?’

‘In that direction,’ the Cat said, waving its right paw round, ‘lives a Hatter: and in that direction,’ waving the other paw, ‘lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: they’re both mad.’

‘But I don’t want to go among mad people,’ Alice remarked.

‘Oh, you can’t help that,’ said the Cat: ‘we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.’

‘How do you know I’m mad?’ said Alice.

‘You must be,’ said the Cat, ‘or you wouldn’t have come here.’