domingo, 16 de agosto de 2015

A beautiful quote on animal emotions by Marc Bekoff


When animals express their feelings they pour out like water from a spout. Animals’ emotions are raw, unfiltered, and uncontrolled. Their joy is the purest and most contagious of joys and their grief the deepest and most devastating. Their passions bring us to our knees in delight and sorrow.

-Marc Bekoff

domingo, 9 de agosto de 2015

It takes nothing... CR- VocalesV

He will buy me a horse and an easel to paint him. I'll live in a big farm where all the non-sense of the city is forgotten. I'll paint while he takes photos with his canon and we'll drink lemonade with cocaine lines on the grass. We're pass the point of looking cool while snorting, it's only recreational. We'll enjoy our deux à deux sort of loneliness, people are a waste of time, with few exceptions. I'll have a cow and a bull, ducklings, chickens, dogs, cats and birds. All of them will be free, for oblivion never learned how to take away their freedom after centuries of unjust slavery. Humans and their insanity. I do not doubt the existence of emotional consciousness in animals, except when it comes to humans. We'll listen to Mahler and Beirut and we'll dance under the soft sun of Normandy. We'll feel happiness, repulsion and suddenly complete horror. Yes, it takes no effort  in love for complete madness to suck us. 

CR- VocalesV

viernes, 7 de agosto de 2015

The distance that separates us- CR VocalesV

There were so many things to say in those days full of rain and free beers. My head spinning, cold and distant, as usual. Your head buried in one of your books: sing me a song, just sing me a new song. Your nights were longer than mine, I wonder how many hours did you watch me sleep, did I look so cold and distant then? Coffee in the morning, I hated black coffee but I loved to hear you talking. Goodbye! Au revoir! And the peace of loneliness that we both knew and appreciated so well...We both had the smell of those who have no future. It was deeper than dying. What should I say to the older me, years from now? I'm so afraid of the older me, I don't want to think of her, so old, so wasted, so full of alienation. I will have nothing to tell her. My brief moments of inspirations are attached to the littlest things, like a dead bird in the middle of the road or the smile of a man who is about to die. Little things never made great poems and I'm part of the first. I tried to photograph a crow that reminded me of you, but he wouldn't let me, so I chased him, I chased him until exhausted, we both drank water together. I guess that's what people mean when asking me to pursue my dreams. I have left it all behind and I feel lighter than ever, but my character is prone to defeat and desolation and there is nothing I can possibly do about it. There's so much solitude when the music stops. I'm afraid of being left alone with myself. One night I danced with you on a boat, the band was playing tango, it surprised me how easy we learned to move together, you grabbed my hips, squeezing, and even though none of us knew how to dance tango, the band asked us not to stop and they played another song; then the owner of the boat announced that what we had looked a lot like love, and we laughed kissing, holding love on a leash, submissive and prisoner. That was before you found me bleeding with a knife next to me: 'love is bleeding' I said with a weak voice, and you hold me tight waiting for an ambulance. That night I dreamed of you and me in a yellow combi crossing South America. I'm mixing the stories but I talk of the same person. You saw it once and you will see it again: the distance that separates us is death.

CR- VocalesV

martes, 4 de agosto de 2015

Lo compartimos Todo CR

Lo compartimos todo, hasta la enfermedad


Conversamos un poco al pausar CR

Sebastiao Salgado

Le digo que Faulkner decía que el pasado nunca está muerto ni enterrado, que ni siquiera es pasado. Le pregunto qué piensa sobre eso. No menciona a Faulkner, entre los dos nos hemos leido solo tres de sus libros, no nos conmueve demasiado. En cambio, me dice que le gusta lo que dicen Nietzche y Kundera, que creativamente nunca podemos olvidar, pero nuestro hogar está, en última instancia, donde decidamos hacerlo. Le sonrío y pienso lo mismo que piensa él, que ojalá nuestra vida sea tan parecida a la de Salgado, que nuestro hogar se encuentre en muchos lugares, en muchas personas, en muchos animales y en los bosques. Le tomo una fotografía, el pasado siempre se quedará en ellas y yo no quiero olvidarlo. 

CR- VocalesV

lunes, 3 de agosto de 2015

Bridges are filled with empty promises CR

Bridges are filled with empty promises

They said to me:
die in the Crisis Unit, bridge jumper.
And I silenced them with poetry.

Mad black eyes
full of Lithium
in that old mad house.

CR- VocalesV

sábado, 1 de agosto de 2015


Tiempo de revoluciones y funerales. He caminado sobre mis sombras y han abierto las plantas de mis pies. La sangre limpia el pasado y aún asi nos condena. Qué sabe de la luz quien no conoce la noche. Las ciudades se cargan de ganas de huir. Prisionera de ibuprofeno y prozac. Pasamos del verano al invierno en medio de una tumba cavada con amor.