Category Archives: Metalingüística

Weird cognates in Swedish

There is no doubt many languages bear the grunt of false friends or cognates and surely Swedish can be an entrapment of sorts when it comes to said dubious company as one traverses the landscape of scandinavian languages and their codifications whatnot and even worse if you happen to be bilingual Xicano that is, fully native in Spanish and English. These sort of false friends words are a challenge to any language learner since they are hurdles on the way to proficiency. Both visual and auditive associations induce a plethora of cognitive dissonance that must be negociated as a good juggler would.

Exempli gratia:

Words in Swedish which are either homophone or homographs in Spanish that also might raise an eyebrow either when uttered or read. These, according to Chamizo-Domínguez (2008) in Semantics and Pragmatics of False Friends can be classified as chance false friends since «there is no semantic or etymological reason for the overlap»:

Both homophone and homograph
lo  (Lynx) similar to Spanish lo (a neutrum Spanish article)
vete  (wheat) (conjuctive form of att veta, to know, old, not in use) Spanish for ‘go’.
kaka (cookie) similar to caca in Spanish which means feces in Spanish
gata (street) cat in Spanish
koka (boil) sounding like coca in Spanish
el (electricity) sounding like the personal pronoun in Spanish él (he)
ser (see) but to be in Spanish in the infinitive
putta (push) sounding like puta which translates to prostitute in Spanish
pippa (slang for coitus) but pipa in Spanish and pipe in English
mina (mine) which in Spanish means not the possessive mine but mine as in mining
en (one) which in Spanish is a preposition (in)
linda (wrap or namesake) which in Spanish is an adjective (pretty) but in Swedish it could be either a verb or a proper name
basta (sauna) but enough in Spanish
Sole homophone
oj! (exclamative which means ouch!) but sounds like hoy (today) in Spanish
Sole homograph
vi (we) in SWedish; saw in Spanish as in the past tense of to see
sur (sour) similar in spelling to Sur in Spanish which means south

Just the same there are a number of Spanish words which are either chance false friends as a homophone or homograph for Swedish people:

Both homophone and homograph
linda (wrap or namesake) which in Spanish is an adjective (pretty) but in Swedish it could be either a verb or a proper name
basta (sauna) but enough in Spanish also in the frozen phrase “och med det där basta!”
ser (see) but to be in Spanish in the infinitive
gata (street) cat in Spanish
ropa (clothes) but shout in Swedish
¡pisa! step on it! In Spanish but which in Swedish is to pee
por (preposition through) but sounding like porr in Swedish which in turn is porn
loca (crazy) which in Swedish is a renowned beverage except its spelled loka
Sole homograph
hora (hour) but prostitute in Swedish
sur (sour) similar in spelling to Sur in Spanish which means south
paja (slang for masturbation in Spain but hay in Mexico) but in Swedish means broken

English takes the lot though when it comes to chance false friends which tend to cause a lifting of the eyebrows for English speaking persons:

Both homophone and homograph aka homonyms to a degree
bra  (good in Swedish) sounding like bra in English suffice to say, ugh! damn homonym
men  (but in Swedish) near homonym to men in English
hen  (S/he in Swedish) recent coin though a chance false friend homonym in its own right
sex   (6 & sex in Swedish) chance false friend homonym & butt of jokes in Swedish
titt or the name tittis  (look or namesake?) near homonym to titty in English.
Sole homophone
fack  (union or slot in Swedish) near homophone to fuck in English
 Sole homograph
barn  (children in Swedish) though a farm barn in English?
slut  (finish/end in Swedish) though prostitute in English
kiss  (pee in Swedish) but kiss in English
bad  (shower in Swedish) but bad in English
gift  (poison or married in Swedish) but a present in English
kock  (Chef in Swedish) but near homonym to cock in English
dog  (die in Swedish) but homograph to canine in English
spring  (run in Swedish) but homograph to Spring in English
driver  (run in Swedish) but homograph to driver in English
hem  (home in Swedish) but homograph to hem (as in stich) in english
fall  (case in Swedish) but homograph to fall (autumn) & (trip) in English
jerker  (namesake in Swedish) but homograph to jerker (slang for masturbator) in English
fan  (devil in Swedish) but a homograph to fan in English

Those are a few examples that if you happen to have English and Spanish as a mother tongue it surely creates a disarray in the head. though often one is warned of said evilish words no one really goes through the ropes when it comes to not just heading the warnings but going through the ropes of understanding that the words (or graphemes thereby) have several meanings (polysemy) in different languages but also how the brain goes about organizing said words to be readily read in the different languages in due process without having to stumble upon the various meanings of the words. I suppose that after a few stinging or negative reactions you just turn off the mother tongue and start treating every word with a new meaning and only afterwards compare the word with one’s L1. But one inevitably starts of by making fun of the weird similarities until they completely become more of a burden than a fun fact.

I suppose that habit makes habitual to understand the different impacts words have on the being. A clear example is the Swedish word for cookie in Swedish which is kaka. Now, kaka sounds very much like the word caca in Spanish which in turn means feces. Caca so happens to be a repulsive word for Spanish speakers and they cringe at the very utterance of it. It’s unpleasant and brings about a plethora of nasty images. I suppose that time allows the brain and one to allow for versatility and juggling the many associations and even with time meanings we no longer use get relegated to the back burner or use it as an analogy at parties to friends of the same feather.  We are able to negotiate the associations by sheer comprehension that the rules and norms governing a meaning of a word are always subject to the ruling and existential conditions in which the word is uttered. I am not reinforcing the idea of language being subject to the idea of nurture but in a sense language does become subjected to its environment since caca while being a homophone to the Swedish Kaka the fact of the matter is that the party that doesn’t share the same cultural baggage the meaning and thereby consequences upon hearing the word will become null and void. And since only one party feels the sting the it becomes obsolete in a sense. The impact has lost its sting.

II language acquisition

Sometimes my language students answer a question about language strategy with the idea that they got «lucky» if their results prove to be more favorable than they thought. But there is no such thing as getting «lucky» with language. It’s simply a process which though unconscious, one has made a right turn or decision as to the right answer in the games of what is right and what is wrong in language. The tricky part is raising awareness about said processes [metalinguistics baby!] but also acknowledging that an educated guess is far better than leaving blanks behind because if you do, then THAT is just plain bad luck and poor strategy.

So you acquired a II language by sheer luck. Putting it succinctly: your brain did something which, you, the owner, was not aware of, it, as in your brain, knew it, again, your brain, could do. What next? Let’s back a little just a tad. So if acquisition was done by inherent prowesses alien to you is it acquired though? This is no innocent query since the very idea of a «native speaker» not to mention Chomsky’s «window of opportunity» theory just might have a wrench smash it. Pardon the hyperbole for the sake of a jocund moment.

I rabidly dissent from the use of the word «acquisition» but since the powers to be in the ivory towers are fond of the term, for diverse purposes we bitterly use said “accepted” term to further our motives. Having left that letter of protest, much to our disgust,  we further our inquiry so as not to incriminate ourselves as vandals and window breakers, again, pardon the jocund tone.

So you got lucky. Is there anything to it? This «lucky» business? I suppose the easy answer is to own it. Like a mechanical bull. You steer it. How? You just do. Here begins the inquiry. Is it fireproof gut feeling? Happenstance? mere hazard of fortune? As you eliminate the obvious, then back in even further. Have you been exposed to said material somehow? Does your mouth salivate like a Pavlov dog at the sound of a bell? The bell being delicious sounding subjects which you passively took in sometime ago?

Dealing with unconscious happenstances, if you will, are always precarious because they start off with hunches, inklings at best which high brow establishment sneer at and define as half cooked notions at best. Yet higher learning buffs are yet to chart a course towards «meta-linguistic awareness». There is no compass or stars to guide us there. Academia can only account for the existence of «meta-linguistic awareness», not how to achieve it. There are, though, some crude sketches akin to an arrow pointing to a vast horizon in the desert. and no, am not digressing. Because the unconscious knowledge of language is still metalinguistics, albeit unawares.

Allow us to delve so far into uncharted sands so as to desire to quench this burdensome idea with an oasis which might or might not be there to aid our thirst for knowledge.

The mirage: a step by step of learning meta-linguistic awareness. Not just mention it as a psychprop to the student but as a strategy the student at hand can use to further its awareness of how language works. The quirk and unfettered notion of it in its purest form. Minutia handwork.

Yet, in the age of the internet how to approximate the lengthy labor of yore?

Based on Bialystok’s model of metalingusitic development (2001), metalinguistic skills have been defined as the ability to reflect upon language, to attend to its form and structure apart from its content or meaning, and to make judgments or evaluate its correctness or incorrectness.

Here, it is adamant we emphasize that we do not subscribe to the idea that metalinguistics is a rib of grammar. In other words, the idea that «psycholinguistic processing operations that access […] internalized grammar»

and to further our own joy gust:

How deaf children can recruit these psycholinguistic processing operations and use their ―ASL language template‖ to manipulate ASL representations and to map them onto the learning of their second language English remains to be studied in future studies.

retazos mentales

Från_Fjerdingen_och_SvartbFind myself thinking about human relations today. Not because I hate the xmas season, which I do. But because solitude seems to glue some aspects of society in some pretty weird ways. Take for example a man I saw today while I had to wait for my departure train to arrive on its tracks. This man was like any ordinary Swede except until he sat down on one of the benches used for waiting. He started knitting a a solid color sock out of the blue much to the quiet surprise of the few of us who dissimulated not to be in utter shock to see a fully bearded man quietly go about knitting as if the very act did not defy conventional rules of society as to what a fully bearded man ought to do in public and in a train station with people, who, luck would have it, were headed elsewhere. Not that the whole unwanted scene seem less pleasant to endure.

As an immigrant to Sweden I find it pleasantly amusing to still be surprised and taken aback as to how little I’ve changed when it comes to my own conventions and rules. For example, while seeing men in pink shirts doesn’t cause existential issues in me anymore the very idea of a half bald and fully bearded man knitting clearly still shocks the foundations of what I think a man ought to be.  Oddly enough I think I was not alone when I dissimulated not to be in shock at the sight. Though it surely did rock our foundations whether one was Swede or not. I can be sure of the last statement because I was in the bible belt of Sweden when it ocurred. Small town Sweden, four churches and all for its 900 peeps.  We, as in I can’t even imagine the intentions of the bearded guy knitting a sock and then even having the gull to measure the half knitted sock right in front of us, as if he was in his house by a fireplace all by himself. Surely there must’ve have been an intent to shake foundations, surely the right to claim public space as one’s for acts that defy the very ens of a society’s core values when it comes to gender must of induced the bearded lad to commit in soul and body to knit before us. Or so I guess. Hence the We.

I sat to read a book to let the time pass by as the knitter faded into an unexpected  yet forced normalcy. This display of bravado, or so I imagine my rebellion, was to flash my book, which I think everyone knew was an old volume by August Strindberg. Fjärdingen och Svartbäcken (1877). The volume has no blurb which goes to tell it is of the late 18th century. People then had to find out through other means their blurbs but suffice to say they are writings of Strindberg from his youth. In fact this is the second author from the past several weeks which have nourished my soul,or quenched its thirst for youthful insights, bearing relation to the last millennium. The other one was Octavio Paz and his Primeras Letras (1931-1943). These writer’s letters have somehow given a new breath of fresh air to my being. Curiously, both dealt with solitude which would seem a modern malaise in our society and moreso these days when boredom is treated more like a disease rather than a natural state of human kind. Go figure kids going about in groups bored to death with each other making phone calls or sms:ing to other buddies equally bored as they are with the own group. As if a tight knit company did not suffice. All in all we hate sequestration except that everyday boredom (as opposed to here-and-now) then brought insight and created stuff we here in this century can ponder upon so as to realize how much in common we had though space and time separate us from one another.

Whereas Paz explores the solitude of the Mexican in mass, Strindberg focuses on the pettiness and solitude by choice of the individual Swede. Strindberg’s characters in Fjärdingen give an accurate description of loneliness and poverty so keen and painfully real they transcend time because, in effect, they describe how the Swede hasn’t change in its manners in the last 100 years or so. Same with Paz and his description of the solitude that the Mexican embraces. Both books deal with student life as it was and the examination of their peers. Acute eye and observation; reflection old style.

I had to pee.

So I decided to buy bottled water, a piece of chocolate which I deluded my mind to believe I would eat in small size bite amounts until I reached Gothemburg. It’s a little game I play with my mind to show intent of mind control and discipline when it comes to food and drink. I simple do believe that I can actually do as I think. Alas! I took a bite and a few minutes thereafter the wrapper landed nicely and securely in the garbage bag under the table in my seating area. I also bought a newspaper called Svenska Dagbladet, morning edtion of the 23rd of December 2013 which I intend to leave in Rome, because, oh yes, am on my way to Rome, Italy, as I write this. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to accomplish at least that feat because I do love doing that sort of stuff when I travel. Somehow I love that, leave pieces of Swedish culture in other countries. I always imagined that other people might wonder about it or that Swedish people might find them and cause a minor surprise of sorts in their minds and faces. I read it and most memorable was to read the yearly chronicle of solitude in Sweden right about this xmas season and how the ink of the  newspaper caused a minor panic in me because, frankly, reading newspapers and feeling the ink on the tip of my fingers is an event that seldom occurs these days, indeed far and between. I got a few gold nuggets from the reading, nice article by Anna Asker which gave me a few new and sharpened insights as I related in awe to what the person described as the terrible angst caused by the Christmas season in people who are (destitute and alone) single. What struck me the most is an observation that nailed what I had known but lacked a word for it because it is so true to the behavior that the interviewed described and that I lacked a term for: she called it, in Swedish, kärnfamiljfundamentalism. Which translates to nuclear family fundamentalism. Hence why am running away to Rome. To skip that shit and crap because I too am destitute and alone, be that as it may be, I can’t muster the loneliness of the Swedish Christmas because frankly, it’s goddamn awful in all its myriad forms. Most in its family gore to force a picture of family that am sure doesn’t even comprise a 10% of the population.

How can we be a normal nuclear family as specified by the Christmas spirit? Aren’t we far from it?

Enter Fumio from The River Ki by Sawako Ariyoshi. A rebel as told by third persons. A youth whose childhood exploits and academic interests surpass the present and future in every fashion. Yet she must obey conventions and give in to the norms of her era for legacy to remain. A misunderstood kid whose few laughters are retributed in pain. I am Fumio too.

Competing languages

I feel comfortable to say am a trilingual. Having said that I can proceed with a phenomenon that I have experienced as a trilingual, newly at that if one wills.

I get stuck at times.

Allow me to expand. I suppose imagery ought to come handy in these sort of explanations.

Imagine three people trying to get through the same door, this door is really, like for one person to get through.

Imagine now an object, say a table. In Swedish it is bord, in English it is table, and in Spanish it is mesa.

A simple word, you will agree with me, as that,  are plentiful.

These words compete with each other at one point or another in the everyday of an ordinary trilingual.

No longer is there an option but suddenly there is a clash of options.

These clashes produce a hesitance of sorts.

A hesitance that causes an uncomfortable lapse of sorts. Which in turn presents a critical rupture of sorts.

Normal speaking people or monolinguals probably don’t experience this as often. I can imagine. It is possible that it may occur when competing synonym vys for a place or a choice of word for suitability arises.

Competing personas of a trilingual

Retrato de Ramón Goméz de la Serna Puig. Diego Rivera (1915)

Here in the Swedish Highlands I speak Swedish to those few I speak to. Don’t get me wrong, there is the occasional Spanish speaker to whom one is lucky to exchange a few inborn lingo with in that tongue of yore. For the most part the operative language in my daily affairs tends to be Swedish. For all intent and purposes this has its advantages and disadvantages. It also explains why I thirst to speak my native languages, English and Spanish. Since I don’t get many opportunities to speak them I yearn for them. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I do use the languages at work, that is how I earn my bread and butter. Yet one thing is to use the language for teaching purposes and another to speak it to talk to people. I mean talk, uninterrupted by silly things such as meta-linguistic awareness. Uninhibited talk about what has happened or what is going on in a language that requires no stopping and thinking about its grammar nor which elicits foreignness 24/7. I want to feel “me” or whatever is left of that “me”.

Allow me to expound.

You see, whenever I speak Swedish, as in any other language, one has to adjust to all sorts of manners and ways of being for many a pragmatic reason which tend to be inherent in the language at hand, customs and practices, unwritten rules, the whole lot. This tends to alter the very fabric of any identity, specially if one is trying to achieve native status. Granted, I probably don’t have the energy to achieve said feat in lieu of my bitching but be that as it may, one cannot escape nor avoid the required niceties one is obliged to fulfill as one speaks the target language, mostly to accommodate the native listener. All for the sole purpose of creating an illusion of communicating as painless as possible and to accommodate the old adagio that when in Rome blah, blah. This tends to jar the nerves and exacts a toll in the person who practices multilingualism.

Growing up bilingual I was always afraid to let my “real” self come out, specially in the USA but on occasions in México as well. I was always afraid of the intruding accents in my speech which would reveal who I really was, in this case a Mexican or an Anglo-Americanized Mexican which would show that I wasn’t who I said I was. Respite where I could really find myself has always been my xicanismo. This is home identity wise. Neither Mexicans or Americans buy this but my fellow Xicano brethren do. They recognize the difficulties of having to pass off as one of the “real” deals because one tends to be hard to be believed in as either as Mexican or American. At times, being having to bear the brunt of being possessed by one group or the other claiming me as one of their own as if I in my plight ventured to suggest I was in need of repossessing or something. Allegiance and all that monolingual identity stuff that comes along with nationalism and its oneness of purity BS. Which brings a host of other points of contention for the bilingual ens since these sorts of nationalistic jingoism have a nasty habit of every now and then putting the crux of national identity dead square on bilingual’s shoulders. We must decide and more often than not we resort to let our emotions decide in a split second. Hence the dubiety with which monolinguals eye us for: monolinguals don’t trust the national or patriotic allegiances of bilinguals. We often go for the host nation. So while as a common bilingual growing up in Aztlan gave dialect and national identity headaches in my persona as a being in Sweden the matter goes beyond said issues.

Now I am confronted with another sort of unwanted language implementation affecting my persona: Swedish demands of its speaker to live up to high expectations of truth and honesty. Brutal honesty expecting to say it like it is no matter what the consequences. This is a key aspect of Swedish in its manner of communicating that failing to include this attitude in social conventions will brand one very easy and fast as an unreliable person to deal with, specially if you live in a very small town like mine. This has a tendency to clash with my other languages which are privy to favour all sorts of avoidance strategies for several pragmatical reasons and practically propense to beat around the bush. This leaves me feeling rather odd in many ways because I feel that there is a competing way of essence in constant flux with the essences of being a Spanish speaker and being an English speaker vis-à-vis Swedish. It’s not that Spanish or English speakers are dishonest but rather that the aforementioned speakers are more on the defensive when it comes to emotional values such as honesty and truthfulness, one guards itself more in other words rather dodging situations that would requiere direct truth and honesty. Hence, Swedish leaving me feeling like I am being a hypocrite when I am being more honest than Benjamin Franklin’s policy. And I know why it turns out that way: it makes me feel a goody two shoe. In English nobody likes a goody two shoe, mind you and in Spanish the truth is more questioned than a fat lie. It makes me feel that am not being myself when in reality I haven’t been more open about myself and my surroundings then I have ever have. I can formulate it as a clash of different values leaving a residue as I segue from one language to the other. It must be a residue from the other languages because I have no other explanation with which the uneasiness arises.  Not only does that happen with my everyday learning of the Swedish language of course, I also experience language interference at a greater rate than I would than when I only had to think about my bilingualism. But this doesn’t go beyond other than affecting my emotional self steem. Listeners are not that patient in Sweden and they don’t complete sentences as courtesy because it goes against their politeness code.

Now, I don’t know if it can be cast into the disadvantage slot but I suppose that in some spot it could be seen as that. I speak namely of the position many a good trilingual has to endure for the sake of learning. One has to shove aside intelligence and allow for the asinine ghosts of prejudice and intolerance to rein free. This means I get to allow myself to be misinterpreted as a fool and at worst as an idiot and at the very best as a retard no offence, off course, to the community often associated with the aforementioned word. I allow that. I loose a lot in that.  I am not terribly proud to expound on this, but it is necessary. A sacrifice of sorts if one is to learn a new language with all its dirty secrets and all. Is it a disadvantage then, to allow a slight denigration for greater gains? I suppose that as a language learner, being greedy doesn’t make me better than a Wall Street stock broker. The downward and minus aspect for the sake of the plus and upward reward.

textile thy I

Al final de cuentas
patch
work
Is
the little
i

.

One wonders: why one fabric
stands out more than the other

.

The hour determines the cloth

.

Sin embargo: La hora no est+á synchronized

Aceptar
o alterar

.

Y uno se pregunta si la alternativa no sería preguntarse
si en verdad: Do I seam

. Or
.
Does someone else chooses
hems whence
. y este quilt
gives warmth
unexpected
cause
in the end
when the question arrives to its last stitch
.
I am covered in it.

Rubor

Me da cierta alegría poder leer de vez en cuando por ahí comentarios de gente de habla hispana que sienta pena por abrir un blog, me da curiosidad que quieran esconderse detrás del anonimato, aventar una mensaje electrónico y querer esconder el paso del deletreo. Me da gusto leer que la gente tome ese paso de despojarse el todo en unas cuantas letras para los lectores voyeour como yo. Las cosas que hay que ver con la imaginación son cuantiosas, por eso no me aburre leer. Ni escribir aunque por estos días ese río este seco.

*
Abrí el blog de HYepez y me viene a la memoria esta platica con Karinusha:

– ¿Que no ves la patente similaridad?

O algo así por el estilo. Platicábamos de Luis Humberto Crosthwaite conocido como el H. Y fue entonces que me cayó el veinte. O según eso entendí, o sea, por qué Heriberto escribe, HYepez, para codearse con Humberto Crosthwaite literalmente. Eitherways.

Siguiendo las recomendaciones de HYepez abrí otro vínculo de la red. No pude leer más allá de la introducción, así me pasa a veces, cuando algo insulta mi mente tan descaradamente como el ensayo de Rogelio Villareal. O simplemente la técnica de la introducción no pinta para más. En realidad la actitud es un poco arrogante de mi parte pero le di una repasadita al texto anyways, por eso de por si las flies y alguien quiera convencerme de que mis gustos o intuiciones están equivocadas. Y sí, el ensayo es una regurgitada más allá de las agruras mentales. Amén de que no contribuye a nada. Ni el gusto de poder escupir las agruras se ofrece, cero devenir, solo el viejo camino del esófagos a las cuerdas vocales que dejan un sabor poco agradable.

Bueno, basta ya de las imágenes regurgitadoras. Cuando acabe de trabajar explicaré en pocas palabras el por qué […]

*
Bueno, después de una larga jornada laboral llena de bullshit proseguimos con la diatriba que otorgamos a Rogelio ya que Villareal nos quiero presentar un pensamiento ajeno a los tiempos en que vivimos.

Y es que no hace falta mucha imaginación para ver que RV sufre lo que los viejos chochos como yo llamamos como una visión centralizada de lo que es el mexicano, sufre, amén de lo anterior, de una catarsis que debió de darse por lo menos hace dos lustros atrás, pero así estamos los mexicanos. Hasta El Manco de Lepanto nos hace ver de antaño a estas alturas. Y es que no podemos dejar el usted y el tuismo en paz en la nación que nos dio identidad. Los mexicanos tenemos los ojos llenos de distinciones pero para lo peor porque llevamos, como el esperma, la carrera por delante. Nos gana el impulso por ‘mejorarnos‘. Eso quiere decir que nunca podremos ver al ‘indio’ como nuestros iguales.

Así que Rog. Vill. puede prescindir de la idea de la Raza Cósmica en nuestro entorno porque las ideas de Vasconcelos no logran lo que el jaliciense Enrique González Martínez le hizo al movimiento de Dario y su cisne. Los mexicanos no creemos ser una historia viviente ni en papel. Creemos en las diferencias raciales. Creemos como las clases sociales de la India. Y es quizá por eso que el perro de Paz1 se sintió agusto allá como embajador en esa nación.

En fin. Habrá que prescindir de la idea del mexicano como mestizo; habrá que verlo con nuevos ojos, uno que es heterogéneo y no homogéneo como el PRIAN nos quiere pintar con esa vieja noción de que somos algo nuevo. Sí, lo somos, pero el problema es que aún se está gestionando el proceso. Aún existimos. No fuimos ni somos: estamos siendo. Solo así podremos vernos cara a cara en los fragmentos del espejo.

———————————————————————————–

1 Para los que desconocen de la historia contemporanea, y mis agridulces comentarios sobre Paz, el Nobel de la literatura tuvo la buena gracia de oponerse al EZLN justo cuando México recibía un aliento de vida y esperanza. Ojalá y ese perro de Salinas esté pudriéndose en los brazos de Shiva.

Bloqueado

A ser verdad me encuentro sumamente aburrido. Aburrido porque no tengo material para escribir. Me hace falta material. Desde hace mucho que dejé de sentir entusiasmo por escribir y yo le hecho la culpa a la falta de alcohol o a la falta de estimulantes en mi medio ambiente. Creo que algo hace falta, no sé si es lo último o writer’s block aguditis. Lo único que sé es que hecho de menos el acto de poder escribir con ganas, con inspiración. Creo que todos aquellos que escriben les pasa eso, se quedan atorados por ahí, por eso se sufre, porque no hay nada de qué escribir. Y solo queda esa vieja sensación de sentir la necesidad de escribir algo así como cuando los mancos te dicen que aún sienten sus partes a pesar de la prótesis. No estoy mutilado, habrá que remarcar aquí para aquellos cuya imaginación les allana el camino sin permiso. Y así, no hacen falta ejemplos, miles de fotos de escritores torturados por la falta de la musa. Yo no creo en musas. Con esa falta de costumbre de creer en espíritus aleatorios como una deidad superior o en viejas deidades del antaño reducí mi gusto por escribir a una simple sensación carnal, a un acto hedonista. Escribía por el placer que inducía entrar en un trance de revivir las memorias.

Me encanta cuando me salen ideas de qué escribir y hago anotaciones en mi cabeza para luego entretener la idea de que escribiré. Por estos días esas ideas quedan en ese mar etéreo que da más que recibe. Pero algo ha pasado aunque siento, como es en estos casos, que algo está por cambiar. Simplemente es falta de disciplina. Para escribir hay que escribir todos los días, eso que ni qué y eso es lo que casi no hago. Tendré que cambiar eso pero creo que no sucederá de la noche a la mañana

Atrofia

Me doy cuenta de que padezco de una especie de atrofia en lo que concierne mi labor en la escritura. Es normal. Algunos padecen de writer’s block; yo de atrofia imaginaria. Le hecho la culpa a que nada sucede en mis entornos. O sea que aquí, que es mi rincón nórdico no pasa ni lo más mínimo de la nada. Es la norma más que la excepción de que no pase nada. He escuchado a William Brurroughs al respecto de que uno no debe de cerrarle el paso al estimulo que uno recibe del exterior. Me parece que Burroughs nunca vivió en Suecia. Aquí, en Suecia, en Småland, no pasa nada. Mi vida está anclada a una rutina cuyo mayor desenlace es decidir qué camino tomar y atreverme a tomar una ruta nunca antes tomada. Algo tendrá que pasar se pregunta uno, pero no, no pasa nada. Vivir en el campo es la muerte de un buen escritor. No que me considere un buen escritor sino que es la muerte de cualquier escritor. Y ni qué hacerle, solo queda escarbar. Y escarbo el pasado, le extraigo al presente las pocas gotas que la nieve derrite o que las neblinas dejan detrás de si o miro al futuro y nada, no hay nada. Mi imaginación me engaña, por supuesto, habrá algo sumamente estupendo al torcer la esquina, pero como esos momentos en las peliculas que la esquina se alarga y se alarga más cuanto más uno se acerca, así, mi clímax.

Son estos días que un buen remojón de Weiss sería estupendo, aquel escritor sueco que produjo una de las mejores obras teatrales jamás vista o que más haya impactado mi vida: Die Verfolgung und Ermordung Jean Paul Marats dargestellt durch die Schauspielgruppe des Hospizes zu Charenton unter Anleitung des Herrn de Sade (The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade)