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miércoles, 30 de julio de 2014

Fragmento Rayuela


Julio


Te quiero porque no sos mía, porque estás del otro lado, ahí donde me invitás a saltar y no puedo dar el salto, porque en lo más profundo de la posesión no estás en mí, no te alcanzo, no paso de tu cuerpo, de tu risa, hay horas en que me atormenta que me ames (cómo te gusta usar el verbo amar, con qué cursilería lo vas dejando caer sobre los platos y las sábanas y los autobuses), me atormenta tu amor que no me sirve de puente porque un puente no se sostiene de un solo lado, jamás Wright ni Le Corbusier van a hacer un puente sostenido de un solo lado, y no me mires con esos ojos de pájaro, para vos la operación del amor es tan sencilla, te curarás antes que yo y eso que me querés como yo no te quiero. Claro que te curarás, porque vivís en la salud, después de mí será cualquier otro, eso se cambia como los corpiños.


-Julio Cortázar


El Futuro. Julio Cortázar

Julio



Y sé muy bien que no estarás.
No estarás en la calle,
en el murmullo que brota de noche
de los postes de alumbrado,
ni en el gesto de elegir el menú,
ni en la sonrisa que alivia
los completos de los subtes,
ni en los libros prestados
ni en el hasta mañana.
No estarás en mis sueños,
en el destino original
de mis palabras,
ni en una cifra telefónica estarás
o en el color de un par de guantes
o una blusa.
Me enojaré amor mío,
sin que sea por ti,
y compraré bombones
pero no para ti,
me pararé en la esquina
a la que no vendrás,
y diré las palabras que se dicen
y comeré las cosas que se comen
y soñaré las cosas que se sueñan
y sé muy bien que no estarás,
ni aquí adentro, la cárcel,
donde aún te retengo,
ni allí fuera, este río de calles
y de puentes.
No estarás para nada,
no serás ni recuerdo,
y cuando piense en ti
pensaré un pensamiento
que oscuramente
trata de acordarse de ti.

- Julio Cortázar. El Futuro


9 frases de Julio

Julio Cortázar


1.
Estuve a punto de hacerlo, y ahora no soy más que uno de los muchos que se preguntan por qué en algún momento no hicieron lo que habían pensado hacer.

2.
Soy bastante repugnante en mi sentimentalidad.

3.
Todo lo mío te lo doy, es cierto, pero todo lo mío no te basta.



4.
Fíjese que cuando sonríe se le forman unas comillas en cada extremo de la boca. Esa, su boca, es mi cita favorita.


5.
No hay nada de extraño en esto porque desde un primer momento comprendí que estábamos vinculados, que algo infinitamente
perdido y distante seguía sin embargo uniéndonos.

6.
Entre muchas maneras de combatir la nada, una de las mejores es sacar fotografías…


7.
… ni a vos te tengo ya porque estaba bien decidido que tenía que perderte (ni siquiera perderte, antes hubiera tenido que ganarte)..


8.
Todo lo que yo quisiera de ti, son esas cosas cotidianas, el olor de tu cuerpo, saber lo qué piensas de cualquier cosa, de ti, de mí, de nuestro entorno. Que mires más allá de mi apariencia física, que me recuerdes con pasión, y que el placer que juntos inventamos sea otro signo de la libertad.


9.
qué hermoso era saber que estabas ahí como un remanso, sola conmigo al borde de la noche, y que durabas, eras más que el tiempo.


-Julio Cortázar


Instrucciones para llorar, Julio Cortázar (Fragmento)

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Instrucciones para llorar 
Dejando de lado los motivos ,atengámonos a la manera correcta de llorar, entendiendo por esto un llanto que no ingrese en el escándalo, ni que insulte a la sonrisa con su paralela y torpe semejanza. El llanto medio u ordinario consiste en una contracción general del rostro y un sonido espasmódico acompañado de lágrimas y mocos, estos últimos al final, pues el llanto acaba en el momento en que uno se suena enérgicamente.
Para llorar, dirija la imaginación hacia usted mismo, y si esto le resulta imposible por haber contraído el hábito de creer en el mundo exterior, piense en un pato cubierto de hormigas o en esos golfos del estrecho de Magallanes en los que no entra nadie, nunca.
Llegado el llanto, se tapará con decoro el rostro usando ambas manos con la palma hacia dentro. Los niños llorarán con la manga del saco contra la cara, y de preferencia en un rincón del cuarto. Duración media del llanto, tres minutos.

- Julio Cortázar (Cuentos Completos)


Julio este textículo les parece joda... Alejandra

Ale


Julio este textículo les parece joda. Solamente vos sabés que el más mínimo chiste se crea en momentos en que la vida est à l’auteur de la morte. Muy tuya Alejandra.
Julio fui tan abajo. Pero no hay fondo.
Julio, creo que no tolero más las perras palabras
La locura, la muerte. Nadja no escribe. Don Quijote tampoco.
Julio, odio a Artaud (mentira) porque no quisiera entender tan sospechosamente bien sus posibilidades de la imposibilidad.
PD: Me excedí, supongo. Y he perdido, viejo amigo de tu vieja Alejandra que tiene miedo de todo salvo (ahora, oh Julio) de la locura y de la muerte. (Hace dos meses que estoy en el hospital. Excesos y luego intento de suicidio —que fracasó, hélas)
PD: En el hospital aprendo a convivir con los últimos desechos. Mi mejor amiga es una sirvienta de 18 años que mató a su hijo. Empecé a leer Diarios. Te apruebo mucho políticamente. Tu poema de Panorama es grande porque me hizo bien (lo leí en el hospital).

- Alejandra Pizarnik a Julio Cortázar


martes, 29 de julio de 2014

It felt...





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In this Cul-de-Sac (In this Dead End) by Ahmad Shamlu


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To make sure
You have not said:
"I love you,"
They smell your breath.
 
They even smell your heart
Trying times are these, my darling.
 
They flog love
Tied to the post of the cul-de-sac
We must hide love in the closet.
 
In this serpentine maze
This crooked cold corner
They feed the fire
With poems and songs
 
Thinking, too, is risky.
Those who, late at night, knock on the door,
Are there to kill the lamp.
We must hide the light in the closet.
 
Then there are the butchers
Stationed at all cross-roads,
Armed with a block and a bloody cleaver.
Trying times these are, my darling.
 
Surgically,
They plant smiles on lips,
And songs in the mouths.
We must hide joy in the closet.
 
On lilies and lilacs,
They roast the canaries.
Trying times these are, my darling.
 
Drunk with victory, the Devil,
Celebrates our wake.
We must hide God in the closet.



- Ahmad Shamlu, translated by Iraj Bashiri


He touched me...




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CR





Still life with a woodpecker

Amarna Miller


Albert Camus wrote that the only serious question is whether to kill yourself or not.
Tom Robbins wrote that the only serious question is whether time has a beginning and an end.
Camus clearly got up on the wrong side of bed, and Robbins must have forgotten to set the alarm.
There is only one serious question. And that is: Who knows how to make love stay?
Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to kill yourself.

- Tom Robbins


viernes, 25 de julio de 2014

Ch, XXXIII




CR


Simone

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People would often talk to me about her; they said she was unstable, moody, even neurotic; I liked being the only one who understood her.

- Simone de Beauvoir


Simone to Sartre

Simone de Beauvoir at Sartre's Funeral



When I’m with you, nothing seems terrible to me, not even leaving you. But away from you, the slightest fear is unbearable. I love you passionately — I’m empty and miserable without you. […] I love you, with a touch of tragedy and quite madly.

-Simone de Beauvoir (Letter to Sartre)



domingo, 20 de julio de 2014

10 de Julio cortázar

Lo lees, lo relees y no para de sorprenderte.


Julio y su gato.


1.
Por lo demás hay que ser imbécil, hay que ser poeta, hay que estar en la luna de Valencia para perder más de cinco minutos con estas nostalgias perfectamente liquidables a corto plazo.


2.
Cuando a un cronopio le rompen el corazón, llora un poco y luego un poco más.


3.
También los silencios atan. (Carta dirigida a pizarnik)


4.
No renuncio a nada, simplemente hago lo que puedo para que las cosas me renuncien a mi.


5.
Tenemos que obligar a la realidad a que responda a nuestros sueños, hay que seguir soñando hasta abolir la falsa frontera entre lo ilusorio y lo tangible, hasta realizarnos y descubrirnos que el paraíso estaba ahí, a la vuelta de todas las esquinas.


6.
Un cronopio es un dibujo fuera del margen, un poema sin rimas.


7.
Oí, esto sólo para vos, para que no se lo cuentes a nadie. Maga, el molde hueco era yo, vos temblabas pura y libre como una llama, como un río de mercurio, como el canto de un pájaro cuando rompe el alba, y es dulce decírtelo con las palabras que te fascinaban porque no creías que existieran fuera de los poemas, y que tuviéramos derecho a emplearlas. Donde estarás, donde estaremos desde hoy, dos puntos en un universo inexplicable, cerca o lejos, dos puntos que crean una línea, dos puntos que se alejan y se acercan arbitrariamente.


8.
Si se pudiera romper y tirar el pasado como el borrador de una carta o de un libro. Pero ahí queda siempre, manchando la copia en limpio, y yo creo que eso es el verdadero futuro.


9.
Y no te olvides; sólo una cosa es necesaria: Todo.



10.
Porque aunque hiciéramos tantas veces el amor, la felicidad tenía que ser otra cosa, algo más triste que esta paz y este placer. 


- Julio Cortázar



The ex-lover of the anti-love story.

CR

sábado, 19 de julio de 2014

Carole Maso

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I am going to write now. It is a way of telling the truth. Or nearing the truth.


-Carole Maso

Fragment Carole Maso

Matisse with unnamed Odalisque model, 1928



She was a painting by Matisse; but she took sleeping pills.


-Carole Maso


Carole Maso

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You thought you were just a sex toy. I suppose I don’t understand the word ‘toy’ in that sentence, or the word ‘just.


-Carole Maso


Fragment Carole Maso from The Art Lover




1.
There are more than six ways, of course,
but this six-sided glass building
with its six different views poses
limitations of its own, challenges.

2.
They were robin’s egg blue, your eyes
and also the sky. You spread
open my thighs. Outside I noticed the field
was being hayed. I cut my hand on the blades
of your blond hair.

3.
In my mind as we
slowly rotate you turn from
man to woman to faun to wood
nymph and back again. Man.
Woman. Bobcat, bear, swan.
Dolphin, under and over and under me,
then you change again.

4.
How lucky we were to be facing
west when the sun set. Your
head sinking to meet me.
No
regard for the bed.

5.
I confuse early spring for winter.
It’s easy with you gnawing on my neck.
I confuse my blood with the crimson sun
which has long ago set but
still burns in my head. I confuse
the red with the firetruck as you move into me now.
I confuse my own screams of pleasure with sirens.
With terror.


6.
Think of something fast—a story
in the dark to prolong this sixth pleasure:
For uniting what were their names?
Delphinus, the Dolphin, was placed among the stars.
To humiliate Cassiopeia half the year
She must hang upside down.
Repeat.
The Dolphin was placed in the sky—
it’s no use, to the think of the spring sky
with your fingers on my own beating
Spring. The stars pulsate.
You and me and the stars are one.


-Carole Maso


Fragment The Art Lover, Carole Maso

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I was here. I touched your hand. We loved each other. We tried not to be afraid. You painted. I tried to put a few real words on a page. This is what it meant to be alive. We lived very hard. We loved everything: flesh, earth, water, sky. We were hurt often. But we loved the world and it was good. You painted. I tried to put a few words on a page. We loved each other. We needed to say something. We did our best. There wasn’t enough time.


-         Carole Maso


jueves, 17 de julio de 2014

Facundo Cabral, fragmento Texto Masturbación





La masturbación es una antología sexual, una selección de los mejores coitos (…)
es económica porque no hay que invitar a comer a nadie, ni aguantar a los parientes de nadie, ni entender a nadie, ni compartir la cama con nadie, ni andar prometiendo pendejadas a nadie, la masturbación es una declaración silvestre de independencia.

-Facundo Cabral

Milan Kundera, 12 fragments from SLOWNESS



1.
… he is caught in a fragment of time cut off from both the past and the future; he is wrenched from the continuity of time; he is outside time; in other words, he is in a state of ecstasy; in that state he is unaware of his age, his wife, his children, his worries, and so he has no fear, because the source of fear is in the future, and a person freed of the future has nothing to fear.


2.
The religion of orgasm: utilitarianism projected into sex life.


3.
“Forgive me,’ I say, “you’re the victim of my crazy imagination.”


4.
The only thing left for us is to revolt against the human condition we did not choose.


5.
In that slowness, I seem to recognize a sign of happiness.


6.
You’re astonished: where, in that terrain so rationally organized, mapped out, delineated, calculated, measured – where is there room for spontaneity, for “madness”, where is the delirium, where is the blindness of desire, where is the “mad love” that the surrealists idolized, where is the forgetting of self? Where are all those virtues of unreason that have shaped our idea of love? No, they have no place here.


7.
…but that is not where they make love; as if Madame de T. meant to head off a too powerful explosion of the senses and prolong the period of arousal as much as possible, she draws him toward the room next door, a grotto deep in darkness and all tufted in cushions; only there do they make love, lengthily and slowly, until the break of day.
By slowing the course of their night, by dividing it into different stages, each separate from the next, Madame de T. has succeeded in giving the small span of time accorded them the semblance of a marvelous little architecture, of a form. Imposing form on a period of time is what beauty demands, but so does memory. For what is formless cannot be grasped, or committed to memory.


8.
There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting. Consider this utterly commonplace situation: a man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically, he slows down. Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his pace, as if he were trying to distance himself from a thing still too close to him in time.
In existential mathematics, that experience takes the form of two basic equations: the degree of slowness is directly proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.


9.
The feeling of being elect is present, for instance in every love relation. For love is by definition an unmerited gift; being loved without meriting it is the very proof of real love. If a woman tells me: I love you because you’re intelligent, because you’re decent, because you buy me gifts, because you don’t chase women, because you do the dishes, then I’m disappointed; such love seems a rather self- interested business. How much finer it is to hear: I’m crazy about you even though you’re neither intelligent nor decent, even though you’re a liar, an egotist, a bastard.


9.
We are all dancers, as you say. I would even say; either we’re dancers or we’re deserters.


10.
She rises and goes to the closet; she opens it to consider the few dresses she has hung there; the dresses appeal to her; they rouse a vague but strong wish to not let herself be driven from the scene; to pass again through the precincts of her humiliation; to not consent to her defeat; and if defeat there is, to transform it into great theater, in the course of which she will set her wounded beauty shining and deploy her rebellious pride.


11.
Poor fellow, he does not know that it’s still her game he is playing, that he is still a manipulated thing even at the moment he believes he has found power and freedom in his anger.



12.
Because beyond their practical function, all gestures have a meaning that exceeds the intention of those who make them; when people in bathing suits fling themselves into the water, it is joy itself that shows in the gesture, notwithstanding any sadness the divers may actually feel. When someone jumps into the water fully clothed, it is another thing entirely: the only person who jumps into the water fully clothed is a person trying to drown; and a person trying to drown does not dive headfirst; he lets himself fall: thus speaks the immemorial language of gestures.


-Milan Kundera (Slowness)


miércoles, 16 de julio de 2014

Jacques Lacan, Truth and Words

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I always speak the truth. Not the whole truth, because there’s no way, to say it all. Saying it all is literally impossible: words fail. Yet it’s through this very impossibility that the truth holds onto the real.


-         Jacques Lacan

Lacan gets trolled by a student in 1972





La genialidad de Lacan en una sola línea

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Truth has the structure of a fiction.


-Jacques Lacan


Slavoj Zizek, Fragment, Love as a Political Category

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I almost cannot imagine in normal daily life, outside war and so on, a more violent experience than that of love. And I think [this is] which is why all the “advisers” that we [supposedly] need today are trying precisely to domesticate or erase this excess of love. It’s as if love is too poisonous and then they, [i.e.] all the marriage and dating agencies, tell you that the trick is how to find yourself in love without falling in love. This idea came to me when on one of my Transatlantic flights I read one of those stupid airline journals and there was a text in there, in big letters, claiming: “We will enable you to find yourself in love, without the fall”, without this dangerous exposure. And I think this fits perfectly to our daily narcissistic metaphysics. You know the old story that I repeat all the time; we want coffee without caffeine, we want beer without alcohol, and we want love without its dangerous moment, where you get lost.



–Slavoj Zizek


Slavoj Zizek (Fragment, Woman is One of the Names-of-the-Father, or How Not to Misread Lacan's Formulas of Sexuation)

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A man stupidly believes that, beyond his symbolic title, there is deep in himself some substantial content, some hidden treasure which makes him worthy of love, whereas a woman knows that there is nothing beneath the mask, her strategy is precisely to preserve this ‘nothing’ of her freedom, out of reach of man’s possessive love.


–Slavoj Zizek


Ch. XX Fragment (On L.)




CR