Ese moods

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Hopefully it will not be long from now that I can retake my writing.

It has been a long time since I really wrote.

It’s not until this morning that my preoccupation with writing was what was being a hurdle of sorts in my writing. I worried about being a writer and that sucked loads of energy which is badly needed elsewhere. Like in writing. I worry too much. My stupid dream of becoming a writer has been a sort of hindrance to this date. I will not nourish that stupid dream again. I want to pound the keyword with my thoughts. I want to write no matter what crap comes nor who cares whether it is worth saving or not, I just want to write and create.

Easier said than done of course.

Supposedly carved into the Delphi temple were three phrases: γνωθι σεαυτόν (gnothi seauton = “know thyself”) and μηδέν άγαν (meden agan = “nothing in excess”), and Εγγύα πάρα δ’ατη (eggua para d’atē = “make a pledge and mischief is nigh”)

Am afraid that my smoking years are done. I don’t smoke on a regular basis, just occasionally and emphasis ought to weigh heavy on the occasional. This year I might of have smoked less than 7 cigarettes. Last night I took several puffs of a cigar I bought under the crazy influences of delusional thinking brought upon heavy consumption of wheat and hops. See kids, don’t drink and surf the web! And if you haven’t picked up the thread yet then I can tell you that on occasions when inebriated I tend to indulge on forbidden pleasures. This, for a catholic raised Xicano like me, means that I am usually safely away from the radar of my family, that is, my woman and two kids would no doubt be aghast at my behavior but not entirely surprised. Catholics do enjoy pleasure most when done in hiding. So am done smoking, though I think I will transgress this decision for lack of better judment, am known for having done so before. I tend to work that way but also tend to plan my pleasure trove for the long haul.

For example, this decision of mine to face the fact that I need to stop indulging in the occasional peace pipe runs of madness during the ethylene rush whence said above mentioned behavior finds its source of utmost powerful influence is due to the fact that I feel am fairing ill. I just don’t recuperate from said tissue damage brought forth through mundane abuse of legal substances such as tobacco and alcohol. I feel in me that I need to slow down to a grinding hault.

The logic is quite simple, I derive pleasure from these activities, smoking and drinking. But overdue consumption of said substances tend to tear and ware the apparatus holding what good Christians like to call the temple of God. I figure, and you go figure, that I will inevitably end up kicking the bucket one beautiful day. Whether by accident, perpetration by own hand or that of other or of natural causes. Since I do want to partake of the pleasure of alcohol and maybe tobacco, say, from when am in the age of 70 or so then I need to allow for my body to recuperate properly in order to withstand the onslaught of the tearing and maleficent effects of said substances in my body, hence the planning.

**** Warning, Catholic page following, worst yet, in Spanish, read with diligence and care: Nada Con Exceso, Todo Con Medida.

The curious thing about dying is not that you are dying but the agony of knowing you are going to die. Even more so when one considers how random death is, for God’s sake, I could die writing, as we speak, as I write this last sentence. Off course, then it would be up to someone else to push the publish button, but either way, I just can’t see myself taking my last breath desperately trying to move the mouse over the publish button. But death does strike randomly. One can wait forever or one can just meet the darn equalizer in just about any other possible position. Not that I don’t appreciate life, for all intents and purposes I cherish every living moment but lately death has been brooding in every possible way near my vicinity. Why has the reaper decided to house itself in my neighborhood is really worrying but heck. I suppose everyone has to feel mortality somehow so old bella mort cuts the lawn giving me the creeps. Who knows what this guy, or gal for that matter, wants right? Of all vicinities and it decided on mine, hello Joe Black.

Though it creeps me I believe am not scared. Yes, you read right, I believe, which constitutes a feasible lie. But what is one to do when The Grim Reaper poisons the environment with his presence? Lord knows. Being more conscious of the darn doom cast its shadow everywhere. And no, am not depressed, a little bit down yes, but certainly not gloomy. I suppose everyone ought to have discussions like this with themselves though I recommend highly not to regurgitate this too much. Too much would mean extending the idea far beyond the healthy benefits of brooding over death. One benefit is that one can appreciate life more, taking life for granted doesn’t prepare no one for death. And besides you spend more time dead than alive so what the heck, get that brain ready for the kick of your life.

For all intents and purposes am a shit little fraidy cat when it comes to religion. Last night I dreamt I saw the universe riddled with letters and numbers. This would on other occasions be a rich source of inspiration but not this time nor when I was dreaming my dream. I remember seeing the number, 68. I saw the number several times before, in particular on a little book of poetry by Robert Burns. It is a miniature volume that was purchased in Scotland, in Robert Burns’ cottage. I know this because I obtained the information from the little book, the previous owner had inscribed the date and place of purchase onto it. It was bought in 1968. I myself did not go to any great lengths to acquire the volume, I did buy it though, in the Swedish Highlands, at the local Red Cross store for the amount of 5 Swedish crowns. Either way, the dream was not nice. I felt fear at the sight of seeing signs scribbled across the great vault of the universe. In other words I felt it was a bad portent. This sort of thing tends to bring out my worst fears, really. It’s all too apocalyptic.

This is also rather strange because I personally don’t give two rats about religion anymore, specially the judeo/christian based sort. I frankly disdain it as much as I can though I don’t shy away from reading or studying said religion.

It was a bad dream.

Every since I started my English studies my white professors usually tend to lash their structure whip at my writing. Here in Sweden, both at Stockholm University and Karlstad University I have come across the critique that my writing is erratic. I lack focus, there is no structure and they generally nag once they finally approve my writing that they do it out of some sort of mercy. I don’t like it one bit and I don’t understand why university professors in these universities have resort to humiliating students so they can learn.

I have always wondered why isn’t there more pedagogy in the language courses at the university level here in Sweden. Or maybe its just my luck that my professors are dirt cheap professional assholes. No really, I could name a few names here to lay out the sort of assholes they are. I am so tired of their bullshit and I know am not alone in this complaint. They claim to be professionals and they might just be good at what they do but when it comes to dish this out to the common student they guard themselves in the power vested upon them. It is all silly really. You know it is a misuse of power and I really don’t don’t care that the university professors are overworked. At least in Sweden they seem to be so.

A piece of work should not be left to the whims of the professor. And I know I am supposed to do the job. But fuck, can’t they just tell me wtf I did wrong? And I know they are terrible assessors when they bitch and complain about how this or that is done in a terrible way. They actually manage to bring several notches down the self esteem. It is as if my self esteem was the target. Because that is what they actually bull’s eye every time.

Pricks, I really don’t like the methods my professors use to inculcate knowledge, it sucks and its denigrating to the students:


I believe I just shook the living lights and faith foundations out of a European or Scandinavian as they prefer themselves to be known. I don’t normally like to engage in this sort of intellectual bouts with any human being beside the blank pages that the Internet offer at the disposal of those who are in the know to use said device to churn out intellectual waste such as mine. I say so because I don’t consider my intellectual output to be of the most pristine sort, indeed, I deem it pretty much low carb if you will as it is very light in many respects and albeit with as little substance as possible though its appearances might at times indicate otherwise or right out deceit the eye though I intended not to do so.

I confessed to a person who is being tested on its friendship. Said person seems to be friend material both intellectually and spiritually as well. The outpour tested his beliefs as I pitted my beliefs against his. I flatly renounced all judeo-christian faith right in his face. This rendered asunder all faith platform said friend material stood upon. One might very well wonder what sort of being would test a friend on an intellectual basis and I would readily answer, I. However, this is a point of contention that we shall quibble further on as I proceed forward on. The gist of my spiritual platform resides on the idea that Christianity is an alien form of spirituality to Native Americans. The voices of my ancestors are still to be heard inasmuch as their voice still lingers on both in the flesh as well as in the past because it hasn’t been more than 500 years since the Christian alien force invaded our shores. This very much baffled our guest at hand. Even moreso as I called his faith a malignant virus. Though the malignant adjective was left out in the conversation but was rather implied as being such.

In retrospect I am glad I came clean about my religious beliefs to this honest to God earth man. I wish not him to believe me a man of the Church though I may convey so in our conversations. Hopelly I managed to come across as a man with not much to hide. After all, I did spoke of my spiritual convulsions during my puberty. This I speak not lightly off to anyone, in fact, not too many people in my life know of my spiritual crisis as a young pre-puberty years. Yet said person now knows of this. A gift I was willing to hand to a person I deem highly in spiritual terms. I hope he understood that.

Uterus fighting the bean stalk Wonder Bra Part 1 whilst the Easter Bunny seeketh ancient ritual to pen a trite old fashion. A seahorse is thus seen a far … yeah.

God People

I am a spiritual being as much as the next José. I have read many words and thoughts which spring forth out of this fountain of faith. Both current thought to early greek notions of the Great Beyond. By far and not least the one that has impacted me the most and thereby influenced me since I read them has been Plotinus‘ 6 enneads. I am no stranger to Martin Buber or the hyper optimistic culture laden rethoric of Joel Osteen nor am I a Christian buff since I have read bits and pieces of other religions such as Confucius, learnt about Shinto through Yukio Mishima.  Let’s not speak of our American homegrown religions such as voodoo or ancient tribal American tradition which are more nature bound.

Yet it creeps me out to read American blogs that are heavely impregnated by their religion. And it sure astounds me to read people being driven by their faith which is reminiscent of the impulse of predestination. What surprises me the most is that they lead a life impulsed by what they believe God tells them to do. Oh, and I hate it when they say they will pray for good will.

I pray the Lord saves them from themselves and their little bubbles filled not with the love for humanity but a destructive drive that revolves around ignorance.


Ready made blogs seem to make it easier for a lot of bloggers. Gone are the days when the blog masses seemed to spend as much on the blog as they spent writing on their blog. I suppose there was a collective short circuit and many just couldn’t deal with the symbiosis of both being a sort of techi and a writer. I should know what am talking about. I still deal with strange blog phenomena.


Scheweden is receiving nice like sirocco winds of a sort. Ja! For this corner of the world anything above the freezing level is a hot summer day. So everything is falling in place like any other season, that is if we are not suddenly attacked by martians for being such the sneaky voyeurs always spying on them or a terrible dislocation of the earth’s poles sending day and night to different dimensions of sorts. Flowers bloomed, are blooming, the neighbor smiles more often and I fight the lawn and a pile of guilt about time pressure to finish a 7000 hour ago project today rattles menacingly by the second. Either way, I expect that the normal june rains will make their entrance any day now.


Have kept most to myself these days.


I like to be organized yet when it comes to music I fail to find any pleasure in this otherwise mundane chore.

I feel bothered by t hings that are not straight. This is part of this little knack in my personality. Though I can live with chaos around me I inevitably fail to do so for long periods of times. I will pick up the mess sooner than later.

So I find myself spending huge amounts of time looking for songs to my hearts delight on the net and then pile them up in some folder with no particular order in itself.

I organize them only to then discover that such order bothers the living daylight out of me because the chaos that provided the exalting delightful surprises is not there no longer.

There is a crux in this that I fail to yet appreciate. I wonder if I will ever do.

My God. I think that I have been more consistent in my efforts to diary here more than previous failed attempts. I spent nearly a whole year without doing any effort to write and here I am.

I believe that I can safely return to the posting thang more often now.

I was musing about the state of poverty, yeah, that’s me, the muser. But in all earnest, I am troubled by it. Though I think that it will never change, no Star Trek fantasies here. Money? Right.

Christianity is the culprit. I blame the cristian faith for more things in this world so I’ll pile it up on that piece of crap.

I betcha some people with get offended by that. Who the fuck cares about these christian taliban anyways. I do, apparently. Either way, they annoy me. I hate the faith but at least I have spent the time reading it. I know most of my bible and not just the stupid King James one. I know the catholic one too.

Anyhows, I worry that poverty can never be eradicated. I mean, look at governments around the world. I was watching I can’t fucking remember what some stupid middle class sport event and I watched intently at the facilities for said monkey show. Wads of bucks spent to make the place spic and span. If only people had the same drive to try and help people there wouldn’t be so much fucking discrimination. Which brought to my attention the fact that government does actually engage in discriminatory acts that favor, constantly, proyects for the middle class and only for the middle class.

Fucking politicians, they never care about the people, they only care about their stupid wallets, am telling you.

In the age of the blog, Stream of consciousness will revolutionize neurosis in ways only television can understand …

Yesterday, my closest friend ever said the unthinkable, he said, I hate Hitler.

I couldn’t believe my ears. He said, upon me asking why, that it was because of him, a state of Israel exists today.

I said, politically speaking, Israel lives in a perpetual state of doubt in the now.

I fail to understand his new gained insight in world affairs but a small inkling tracked me down all the way here.

I nearly got on my knees, I begged, for him to expound.

Had ony Hitler let be, Israelis would never had accepted a state for their physical selves.

Befuddled I implored for more.

Jews suffered their extermination in ways we fail to understand.

But had Hitler just let be, he insisted, maybe jews, the elite, would never ever had agreed to religious zealots dreams.

Instead, zealots, rule Israel.

with that he failed to utter more.



Drropy eyes
burped the last gas

had more time

Though the clock
’tis struck

Reading this sent revulsions of all sorts down my spine.

The most famous record of slave life, Frederick Douglass’s “Narrative,” rendered vividly the vile mix of lust and domination practiced by slave owners.

This is a bunch of poo in the loo in my eyes. The most famous is by far Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl.

It just turns out that the aforementioned article writer chose to elevate the one mentioned for the purpose of highlighting a sucession of possibilities for the benefit of present company.

Slavery is not something that ought to be awakened so easily for the purposes of gaining favor in some. Slavery is a gross crime from the past that is yet to be addressed or resolved.

Republicans and their cronies ought to feel embarrased for allowing this kind of crap to crop in an era like ours.

Hope the article writer gets chastised by a few or more.

A poem I wrote on the subject at hand not long ago.

The weird and odd thinker at Daily Kos [too asimilado for my taste] had nothing to add to the immmigration issue and the mass protests that ensued thereby. So much for crashing the gates. There is a thing that assimilated to the core Xicanos loath most and that is Raza being raza. For these kind of Xicanos these raza aren’t gringo enough. Oh, but they’ll go on and on about the US Constitution this and that.

Zúñiga, who hates it when his last name is mispronounced by the general media, no, not Zúñiga but that other funny sounding name, Moulitsas, states that “My heroes are Archbishop Oscar Arnulfo Romero, Cesar Chavez“.

I think that this hip young raza man, whose blue-red blood runs deep enough to ignore the raza sediment in his veins, is beyond gente.

Am I being evil? No. I think that he is using his origins and color amén de su nombre to gain political gain. Is that bad? No, but it ain’t honest either.

Yes, I know he is busy being the good Democrat. Oh, am sorry, am not an American? That am a Mexican Xicano, should I have not opined?

PS: the Kos gang zoomed on my post like a rabbit out of the blue, erhm, that doesn’t make sense does it? I wonder what they thought? Sure’nuff and item on the protest appeared on the matter [though, we must admit, that we do not know if our blog had anything to do with that decision, that is, to mention, the protest], jíjole, even on a bullet! Wait till I tell the folks back home about it *insert a jethro from Beverly Hillbillies laugh here* I made a difference.

I must confess that when I think of this blog its death is my wish. I want to do away with it yet somehow, it remains. This is due because all my ideas are channeled throught the spanish blog and by the time I near this blog I have emptied my soul unto God’s language. Or so said Carlos V that when he spoke to his horse he spoke in german and when he spoke to God he spoke spanish.

Am waiting. At this particular point and time am wasted, outdone and sin ganas to do anything with the english language. I have no inspiration and the sad realization that I am not going to win the Nobel in litterature has set a dark horizon looming like a bad black cloud downpouring on me its constant water.

So I want to kill my blog, pull the plug and just concentrate on spanish.

But will I? I sincerely doubt it.

People don’t inmediately associate the word each with one. But it is, in essence, a synonym of One. Ain’t that crazy?

Am not a on demand writer.

I hate writing on demand. I just don’t have the gusto for it. Hey! did you know that the word gusto is also a Swedish word? I was amazed when I found about it. I was writing some rant or the other about teachers in Sweden when I wanted to use the word gusto and ¡jíjole mano! it’s used in Sweden too! I’d be damned. But to retake the initial conversation about writing and demands, I seldom succeed in writing at the request of others.

I have tried several projects before, here and Living in Sweden/blog [out of the cyber world and only on cache from nowadays] can you see my lukewarm successes.

I like to write, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that I don’t like to write sin ganas.

By nature I am antisocial. Don’t get me wrong. It is just that I do not know how to work with other people. I was raised not to trust myself. There wasn’t someone telling me how good I was; quite the contrary, there was always someone telling me how wrong I was.

So when people come and tell me, gee Julio, you’re just a swell fellow. I never knew you were such a fab pal, you rascal you. It tends to not just turn me off but also make me wary as a freaking porcupine just about to be run over on Texas highway road.

I don’t do well and am afraid as a motherfucker in Dante’s inferno to disappoint people. When I do consent to do works the pressure is on. I miserably end up being a failure of sorts because then I am pleasing others, a skill I am not skilled at.

I tend to do well when no one is looking, perhaps a habit I gained from writing dairies all my life until, voila! someone came up with the idea that a blog was just as good as a diary, and off course I bought the whole shebang with a sidedish of enchiladas along. So here I am.

Be that as it may I would like to thank the folks at Global Voices for linking me in their exile department seemingly at the indefatigable hands of David Sasaki. Its nice to get traffic from the far corners and reaches of the USA. Besides, its an opportunity to poison minds with my diabolical world domination plans, muahahaha …Hey! where’d that come from?

Oh, this is just damn dandy, hilarious and outrages. Another year, as if. You know that saying about a hole and a head, you get the drift. Am on my second day of it and am already feeling old and tired of it. Where is my mojo? Who knows.

On the first of what we are made to believe is a new year, I woke up and looked outside my window, gaddamn, it looks just like the one before, I swear to God.

Abject New Year. It’s gonna be the same fucking shit as always in the english world.

The military industrial complex of the USA will keep shoving us lies up our ass like there is no tomorrow so they can kill more people and have more fun inventing more ways to anihilate the human race as fast as they can erstwhile calling it protection of our life style. They will still concoct ways to convince us that because other poeple of other thinking and other ways of seeing how the world runs is bad for us and good for them because that way their power hierarchy basically remains unscathed adn they get to make a pretty penny while at it.

Christians will still keep shoving their doomsday crap and cultural assasination in the name of God over and over again for 363 days. Christians will still not find it contradictory that God has chosen tribes for when He comes to our rescue and takes us to his Paradaise while millions upon millions still don’t believe in Jesus or God and hence making Christians nothing more than charter agents for a paradaise trip to heaven for the few selectee. Christians will still believe that other cultures are an afront to Jesus Christ God the Trinity and will stop at nothing to eradicate them in the name of Love and the Word while their churches and ministers smile and laugh all the way to the bank.

White people in the US will still be in denial saying they are not racist while they hoard the best they can for themselves calling whatever crumbs happen to fall down the ground good deeds. White people will still be unable to see that people of color are not a threat to no one. White people will still be unable to understand that they are more favored because the people that best resemble themselves tend to favor those they resemble most and since white people are the majority and never the problem they will never see the solution.

Rich people will still call poor people lazy.

Children all over the world will suffer hunger and die of starvation.

US citizens will still be in denial that they finally have a president that is honest, truthful, and open. They will be unabe to see that George W. Bush at the very least hasn’t tried very hard to hide from the rest of the world and them what the rest of the world knew already for decades before they did, namely, that the US engages in Big Brother activities all over the world, tortures people of all walks of life in the name of democracy and that they will stop at nothing to comply with the law even if that means breaking the law.

Race will stll be race and people of all walks of life will loose their life because they are either the wrong color of skin, they have a difference of opinion or because, worst yet, they adore a different God than yours.

The incessant hot spot Israel-Palestine will still keep the world holding their breath.

The citizens of Israel will still be pounding the living crap out of the palestinians with their superior military power. They will still prevent any democracy in Palestine because, in essence, that is not in the interest of Israel, no matter what you hear in the news, Israel is run by a conservative line of thinkers who actually are on record for hating palestinians and anything to do with palestinians. [and they will still act surprised whenever Iran says anything bad about them] The jews will still remember nazi Germany reminding us how awful the human race can be everyday of the year while other genocides by other people in the world will go largely unnoticed by the world leaders. The jews will cry out that what I am saying is unfair, antisemitic and call me, a mexican who writes english, antisemitic though am barely 37 and have nothing to do with Europe, Germany, Jews, Israel and basically, try and keep my opinion out of the great ideas of the world because I so happened to have an opinion on the jewish state of affairs of the year 2006 and that is bad enough for some ultra jews who will stop at nothing so that no one speaks ill of Israel because they do loath a good comment resembling anything to the truth. I will still not see a black or arab jew run for any government office in Isreal on television in 2006. Nor will I see Ariel Sharon brought to justice for the crimes against humanity like we saw Pinochet before a court of law.

The palestinians will still hate the jews and will stop at nothing to destroy the state of Israel though technically that is an imposibility due to Israel’s huge superior military power. Palestinians will not be able to run their lives normally because they too, like the jewish people who want to live in peace, are run by extremists though Israel’s extremists are more acceptable because they look and talk like its western counerparts do and the beown palestinians don’t.

Africa will continue to be raped, be sumerged in misery and suffer many epidemics because the pharmaceutical industry in the West just can’t see any profit in helping the human race there.

México will still continue to be corrupt and the hyper rich will get even more hyper rich. Unless there is a tectonic shift in the hierarchy of power in México no real change will occur this year. Drugs and money will still cause damage around México. Juárez will remain largely unsolved and the judicial system in México will become an extra pawn in the power struggles of the drug dealers and the misery in which the mexican government keeps its employees and its citizens.

The indigenous people of America will not get their due even though their presence is still resounding more and more in the news. They will not inherent this 2006 nor gain their world vision any great strides.

In other words, capitalism, money, wars, hate for each other, complete disregard for other human beings will still be the order of the day all around the world.

So another new year just means more of the same fucking crap over and over again.

I have come to realize that monolinguals and bilinguals aproach language in various manners.

Monolinguals just don’t feel the sting of language as much as we bilinguals do.

Language hurts. Bilinguals feel language and we are more sensitive to it. It is something that monolinguals fail to understand.

I suppose it has something to do with the constant correction we ourselves make to our speech, our writing.

It is called with a very fancy name: metalinguistics. It is a monster that it is constantly breathing down ones neck. Shaping it, correcting it and scolding us.

It is, however, one thing that one gets criticized in the privacy of ones own mind and another having it heard from the lips of another person.

That is why it stings.

I suppose that to monolinguals a criticism about language is no more than an objective observation.

To us is an infringement on a privatre conversation.

Though what hursts the most is when we are told that we don’t speak any language right.

People really need to stop saying that. It stunts growth.

Writing in blogs has given me a distaste for much of what I deem cultural ideologies. For me, this means the one that says we are descendents of spaniards and aztecs. I now laugh when I hear people in my surroundings expressing admiration at this ‘fact’. I generally feel repulse at what europeans have done to indigenous people of México and further more I loath the cristian faith. Get the popcorn, am a roll here.

Never mind that I was raised in Tijuana, Baja California, México, that I have two religions inculcated in me which are based on the christian faith and that for all intents and purposes there are some kind of euro genes running amok in my old bag of flesh since though not white there is a certain indelible shade of that pigment. If there a re stories about black children trying to scrub their blackness away, I tried to do away with the white with mud, el color de la tierra.

So when I write fiction, be it in spanish or english, I readily dispose of myths. My heroes are people out on a vegeance path and will exact their repressed anger. I don’t like history, it makes me sad.

The cultural ideology part is a bit trycky though. Most people are content to be called, for example, American or Mexican without given it further thought. The package, after all, is neatly envuelto, packaged. It comes with a cultural bagage with enough info to provide a decent dose of cultural pride with the occasional bad remorse of conscience for what either part of the equation has done to each another. Because, if you are from the part of the world I come from, America, inevitably you’ll end up raised believing that whites and indians made you who you are though at the expense of cruelty from both parts.

Not me. I look at my surroundings from the comfortable age that am in now and I wonder. I see who has been shoved around and worst yet, the sham that state ideologies can be.

The older I get the more I see the harm that christianity has done. The christian faith has been nothing but a destructive path for that better half that is either me or that is either a fabricated social part of me, American indians of all races. The christian faith destroys. The christian faith does not engage in salvation, it engages in whole sale destruction of civilizations and there is almost nothing on its way stopping them.

Oh, and you can’t convince me otherwise. But you can try.

El fact of the matter es que el mundo is just ripe enough para algo. Qué algo no sé. Mas el sistema que cunde por el mundo doesn’t necessarily apply to the structures that govern us. Governments try to play the ethics rule for the majority pero la minority that rules the world no juega por esas rules. That is the bare truth. So we have rich guys running about doing whatever they want on different playing grounds because they have the money to do it and government stands idle doing nothing about it because the rich obstruct real change for all. Though please notice that poor have to abide by the rules the rich dictate as decent society. God forbid that poor people start acting like rich people. What we need is democratic change and democratic change away from rich people because the real cancer lies with them. They still hold the knowledge and they don’t want to share. Democracy in a lot of so-called democracies are nothing but small dictatorships who hold the purse strings. Like having a thief hold your wallet.

Just look at the USA. The rich rule them and they send the poor to defend a system that is unsustainable. Innocent blood is spilled and they can’t even provide bullet proof vest because the ultra rich can’t even make a donation for their own.

Where is the Bush clan and their patriotism? But the generals laugh and provide intelligence and propaganda for more unwanted murder for the rich. They use their own. Red star spangled blue stripes? For whose benefit one may very well ask. The military seems nothing but the ultra rich hitman.

Los ricos, who can buy their innocence in as much as catholics could buy their soul freedom before Luther came with his thinking and casted down the system of sin washing via means of monetary ways, will die only for their only cause. That is the real catalyst for the past milenia.

Is this fair? Off course not. The moment one starts asking for better treatment of the people the rich people best vested to make change will spare no time to make the changes to change them. The rich will spare not a cent to sustain the very system that has sustained them for a milenia now. They say that no kingdom can last a thousand years but the truth is that the rich caste has governed the world for the past two milenia! They rather die than conduce themselves via the path of change. Once we start asking for equality their favorite word red will appear a pandenium epidemic on their lips.

Real thinking and real convincing methods, far beyond those that Chancellor Brown from England has managed to this day bring forth need to happen more often and on a daily basis to gain a new view for the future. A future there everyone is on an equal ground and advance humanity, not destroy it like the Bush Clan and their God and their stained hands have done to the world up to now.

Only once it stood there
a japanese wooden artifact
T’was I who saw it the most
staring at it endlessly I cried

laughter and tears of joy rolled
I stared at it on and on
sliding through its curves one by one
I relished the emotional ride

I pondered the relation
the space between me and the artifact
entering my sight
taking over my mind

A delectatious arrest
It overcame me with its beauty
I equated beauty with hapinness
No one else seeing it more than I

I loved it

Filiberto Ojeda Ríos

Como todo buen hispano, de Pancho Villa hasta Reis Tijerina, Filiberto Ojeda Ríos has died under the güero gun.

The language to disseminate the news is awful. The most humane headline can be found at the above link. The rest is just güero dribble gore about law and order rethoric that they have been pushing to us since the West rose. One wonders why the FBI is so keen in arresting the lesser evils of society when it is at the top of the food chain where the real menace resides. For example, why aren’t there any names with the heist of the one billion dollars in Irak?

Filiberto Ojeda Ríos

and what we consider criminals are your heroes …

Leonard Thomas, de 23 años, muestra su congoja luego de que policías allanaron la vivienda en la que permanecía junto con su familia, en Nueva Orleáns. Algunas personas denunciaron que se habían metido ilegalmente en la casa, pero fueron liberados cuando probaron que era suya

Got one of those spam mails today: High quality Replica. Now, how in the hell can a replica be of high quality to begin with? It’s a fucking replica for crying outloud ese!

Well I just renewed my webbhotel again. Ever notice that webbhotel gives that prostitute feel to it? Either way, am on for another year at the offices. Though I must confess that last year wasn’t a good one for the letters of the bard. I slacked. I’m true to my generation and am a slacker. I’m a slacker ese, so what homes? Yeah, so the only blog that has its own MySQL database goes on, and the beat goes on tunes in in my Xicano soul by Love and Rockets. Yeah, am that old ese! Hopefully there will be more sources of inspiration out there. Like I said before, spanish has churned out a lot of letters out of me. Perhaps I have more to say in spanish than in english. Truth be told am kinda of in a gooey sticky kind of phase right now.

Ever since I did a 15 page article on Miguel Mendez book Peregrinos de Aztlán I have been quite at odds about languages and Aztlán. Spanish seems to be getting the forgemenot flowers at a declining rate. The word ‘commitment’ (as in Aztlán needs to told in both spanish and english) has been chiseled in my cabeza. Oh well, enough with the speeches and the moanings and the chilladero, gonna attract la Llorona pretty soon. So yeah. One more year.

PS For some odd reason my older post from blogspot are still available in blogger, I deleted the blog but the archives remain. If you feel you can’t get enough of my xicanismo, this is the reason why. Where it all started.

Rheinland-Pfalz (Capital: Mainz)
I was finally able to retrieve from my surrounndings for a week. During week one of the year (1999) I took a very much sought after trip which had languished back in time for sometime now. I must say it was a trip that fulfilled all my desires. I went to Germany. I enjoyed very much my trip and saw some of the best wonderful Rheinland-Pfalz countryside Highway 61 had to offer, specially the road from Neuweid to Worms which has a bridge to match the Golden Gate in size. The valleys, however, cannot be compared and the mountains neither. The weather was perfectly clear so my eyes were not sored by the clouds which, I think you might agree, robs much of the light that would give the valleys a majestic hue. My landscapes kept changing as we went from one part of the region to another and, I believe, it was a good fortune the Rhine was on the way and by all the places we went to. It was a most welcome delight to see the Bayern country fields surrounded by so many mountains indeed.

Neuweid viz Koblenz to Frankfurt am Main thereafter to Worms.

I was, however, drawn into my innermost feelings every now and then. No doubt caused by the music we listened to as we travelled the highways which evoked in me all kinds of emotions. Memories of you. I travelled all those days thinking and feeling all my memories and everything posible I could say to you. Memories I enjoyed very much, though tinged by tristesa, were as much of my trip as the views of that region of Deutchland. One can well say that remembrances of yore are best when one is still able to feel them completely. I was also able to taste some of the best and tastiest Bayern beer. Of course, Kassel, Worms and Franfurt am Main are places of long beer tradition. I will probably never taste again those beers in my life. of course, such statementes are unfair to life; one is very well drawn to formulate such conclusions since one time just seems just that “one time”.

I started at Hauptwache.

I had the good fortune to see Frankfurt am Main. A small section of it, indeed, I don’t think am unduly boasting to say that it was a destiny of sorts for me to see such ancient part of it. As luck would have it, the driver of the lorry had to have a nine hour rest before he could start again. And, knowing myself well, I did not hesitate much to venture into the city for nine hours would give ample space for that. Taking into consideration a sort of ill omen would cross my way and get lost I set about on a reconnaissance voyage but as my stars would have it I was easily able to find my way around always taking careful mental notes as to where I turned and such directions. I jumped on bus 37 j.Kircher-Ahz to Hauptrahnhof where I found a city in motion, that is, compared to the industrial side of the town were my fellow companion was resting his hours.

I arrived in that section that houses most of the city churches. Wonderful pieces of restoration. for, as you might well know, much of that city was left in ruins during WWII. And I hope you allow me to make a comment of sorts here, for I am of the opinion that one cannot mention Germany without it having some reference to WWII. I also, as you are a seasoned traveller yourself and might find this truthful, had the good luck to arrive on a wednesday which implied free access to much of the local museums of the city. As I was short of monetary resources ( a deutch mark costs 5 swedish crowns) this was a most celestial welcome.

I remember rather clearly
how the cherry tree
blossomed after a long winters rest …

extra extra : nordic sea winds sweep swedish highlands
though caressing blow kissed the white lilly petals …

it was the time of dispersement
the cherry tree’s flowers
flew aided by the airs …

My green grass filled with spring petals
I remembered autumn that day …
white lilly red petals
of the cherry tree flowers
strewn about my green Savannah…

The apple tree too
furnished the lawn
with white red petals of its own

seems my tongue will
caress its paladar
with swedish red cherries and yellow apples again …


I do not understand how is it that the devil hasn’t made a move yet. The circumstances are ripe for him or her or whatever that christian concoction is, to do so. Devil, where the fuck are you motherfucker? Òrale, (imagine Neo here bending his fingers beckoning Mr Smith to bring it on). The mattter of the fact (does that go like that, who cares, it’s the order that I wanna mess with …) is that christianity is suffering from overpower. This is the culmination of 2005 years of christianity. The jews know it better than we, heck, they invented that wretched cult. So, christianity is suffering a dizzy oh my gosh am drunk with power, give me another cup god damn it (God’s last name ain’t damn it) of that stuff. So evil converging with goodness, heck, separation of powers just lost all its relevant gibbirish babble and blah blah to the nth degree.

With George W. Bush in power the christian agenda, the kind that is united in its hate for other forms of lifebeing and thinking, hellbent in its sureness anything not christian is bound for hell, has come to a peak.

Three cultures converge in this bag of flesh. Their languages I have suffered in my flesh. Three peoples ways have I walked upon; three manners and attitudes I have had to adapt to and assimilate, mine eyes have seen the souls of a many folk. Yet I still miss my own, I still remain tijuanense, xicano.

These days I find myself deeply fond of XX century thinking.

From Volume IV Number IV
The New Criterion A Quarterly Review October 1926
New York Chronicle: Gilbert Seldes

There is an attitude of mind familiar to observers of American intellectuals which Europeans ought to understand; I find it so often undermining my own judgement that it would be unfair of me not to state it. It is the tendency to misprise the purely American thing, the provincial or the local, as a method of glorifying whatever in our arts has the pretension of being universal. For example, although I am keenly interested in the natural development of those cadences and rhythms which, much more than slang and individual words, are making the American language, I can find nothing attractive in the nasalities, the hard utterances, or the drawls which give us, in various parts of the country, the American accent. We are hardly ever pleased by the literary or social success of anyone or anything because of American ?quaintness?; to ourselves we are neither picturesque nor quaint, and except for those who are trying to isolate America artistically as well as in politics, we wish to be loved as equals. I can see no impropriety in this attitude, and am actually concerned with its results. The popular and journalistic success of Mr. Sinclair Lewis’s novels was remarkable; yet it remained for the English critics to hail them as exceptionally fine works of art in the satiric vein; to us they were rather pedestrain reporting only interesting for their temperamental dislike of our commercial middle class, a dislike which we had passed through perhaps ten years earlier, and had lacked the acumen or the energy to record, probably because we felt the whole thing had been done by the French Romanticists and had achieved perfection in Madame Bovary. (…)

Well, I went and did it, not planned, not anything, just out of the clear blue sky, there we go. Would you believe that of all the places in the world for me to find another Xicano would be there? Well, I did, I was minding my own business looking around at the construction of one of the churches when someone spotted me as one of their own. (Picture a texas drawl) pretty hot today ain’t it? I suppose my aztec codice t-shirt, blue jeans and sneakers plus the fact that am brown gave away somtehing. I mean I can’t figure in all the world how the lad figured I spoke english. I guess I was looking too much like a gabacho, that tends to happen. Specialy at the vending places, they see me and the prices hike up immediatey like 30 percent more than they are, “hey, no me mire con cara de gabacho” pure indian blood here amigo, no me chingue …. I mean I have to remind my own people that am one of them!

So yeah, I was there, I saw the catheral were Juan Diego saw the virgin, damn! Even gabachos knelt at the sight, so I did as well, however I can’t muster an adoration to the virgin, must be all that protestant genes we carry due to the freckle invasion of yore. So I just knelt an muttered some words to that high deity I have no name for. It was interesting to see the little cerrito, how do you say cerrito in english? I mean, mountain seems a little to big, perhaps hill? Tepeyac hill? Oh well.

Otherwise it has been boring without you, no beer guzzling or any debauchery like I should, just moderate drinking and dangerously putting my stomach on the line, I buy street stuff. Just stuff like quesadillas, gorditas and other unhealthy fried and scrumptious delicacies of the mexican cuisine. Today I wondered to what must surely be the longest street market. I mean it just never ended. I even bought myself a beer that the vendor put in a plastic glass with salt and lemon, I just kept strolling gayly skipping people, listening to the music, the hollering and all that mexican urbane noise to the delight of my senses. I just can’t explain it really, I mean I was enjoying the stroll, my people, the smells, the crowd, I felt at home.

Later ese!

Yesterday I was such the decade ago, I swear to god, I was deep in a contorted repressed laughter and in awe at the things I did. So what did I ever do that threw me back not only a decade but nearly a decade and a half back? Well for the first I peeled off a Rancid poster off a wall in the very trendy street called Gotgatan by the Metro station slussen in Stockholm, so yeah, I did that, burrrrr, shaking in disbelief. The other thing is even more dismally shrieking, I bought, get a load of this, I bought, now remember that am a poor student with very little resources as ways go for monies, and hold tight now, and don’t hold your breath,I bought a Compaq Presario with windows 95 on it! with two whole gigabytes in it ….jejejeje, it was only a 100 bucks or a 1000 Swedish crowns but hey! I can now, watch this, I can now write documents in my dorm, which by the way won’t be happening anytime soon since I still have to add working hours in that antique piece I bought, yeah … you got it right, I’m erasing everything in that thing and setting it up with all the modern goodies of this year, anyhow, you’d think I bought a 1956 DeSoto or something.

So yeah, those are yester antics, today, less see what happens …

Going even further more in time I am writing a C level essay on Hemingway, so am reading, as of now, The Sun also Rises and The Old Man and the Sea, I will be concentrating on the issue of Machismo. I chose Hemingway because he is such the American icon, plus, and get a load of this, plus, he incorporated rather well the Hispanic sentienty of the Latin world. So am looking forward to interpret these works of his. So expect comments about those two books in the coming weeks ahead as I will be dealing with that …now let’s see if I can distinguish sober writings from unsober ones ….

I lived in England once in 1998, Bournemouth, in Dorset, and while that coast town brought nice memories, far more than Paris ever did, believe me, the biggest impression left on me wasn’t the quaint seaside lifestyles nor the fact that Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley is buried there but rather England’s immigration and customs services.

At the time I hadn’t become an EU citizen so I carried my Mexican Passport. Having being accustomed to travel unhindered in Europe it came as a natural surprise to me that I was stopped at Heathrow because of my nationality. I was offended, quite frankly, to be made to sign a waver of rights in order to be able to enter the country. In essence Mexicans seem to have a bad rap there and are in the habit of entering the country to ask for UK benefits. I guess I might be wrong but I didn’t quite get the logic behind the waver nor as to why Mexicans were singled out for this list of people who come in to the country to milk its welfare system.

In general, I think of Britons like most Americans think of them, snobs. Having gone through what I did that day my attitude hardened considerably more after that incident. However, let’s not confuse government employees and the beasts they become when ordered to enforce laws nobody understands with people of the everyday caliber. Most Brits I’ve met seem quite down to earth just as much as the next bloke around the globe. Yet immigration, a ghost that has chasen me all my life, is an issue I carry deep inside me so I react quite normally, in indignant tones, whenever I’m stopped by these services countries have in order to syphen out unwanted elements.

Nevertheless, I find those services in the UK ugly, the same goes for America and certainly from any other part of the world, It is hedious that governments around the world engage in this humiliating act of stopping people because of their nationality.

Yeah, I know, it’s 2003, the shadow of Terrorism covers every human soul nowadays and this is idyllic thinking and quite leftist humanitarian wishful reckoning but I can still dream and no terrorist organization nor stupid evil government like the USA has now can stop me from wishing for a better tomorrow today.


I’ve noticed that my admiration of the natural elements such as the clouds, the air, the atmosphere, the day in itself, requires of me new forms of expression. I tire of the same old description quite easily. I hope though I come up with new forms of description since what my eyes see and what emotions are awakened by this peculiar phenomenon in nature, the swinging of the branches of the trees by the force of the winds never ceases to sooth me and being the egoistic observer I wan to capture said outward event in words. Yet my words are becoming readily trite. Not only do I want to change the way I jot down these events but I also perceive that my outer milieu demands this of me.

I am forced to come up with a more abstract thinking than I am perhaps unable to perform. Although I must admit to myself that this presents a tempting challenge of sorts. How am I to wrap up this life experience into words is more challenging than a navy’s knot master class. The medium at hand being easily transmitted by the eyes? canny ability to trap the essence of the spiritualness that lies in the observance of nature is not so easily entrapped in nicely packaged and ornamented words, no, indeed, and therein lies the challenge.

In my roundabouts of the blogsphere I have read here and there that words carry certain energy in them, this happening, of course, in the more mystic prone language of Spanish. In the event that this is true, and I hereby declare that I am not denying that it doesn’t exist, then words have a more potent effect on the human being than I am willing to grant them. I have watched and read with great care how the government of the USA goes to great pains in choosing its vocabulary to produce certain desired effects onto the end receiver. So if were to be a government employee then I would be careful about the words I choose in the expectations of a certain reaction from the end receiver. However, as am more interested in retransmitting an ocular/emotional event I am more concerned with pathos of a different kind. Or am I?

What exactly is it that which is wanted to be transmitted? The ocular or the emotional or a combination of the two thereby? The combination of the two would indeed be most optimal since what is wanted is a description that said trees as the wind swings produces on a human soul which in turn happens to be in a heightened emotional state nearing a certain peacefulness and lightness of air attached to it. One can very well also attach an interpretation to said movements, like the wish of a reunion with the elements or certain identification with them. Perhaps that can aid to a near description of the elements that one wants to describe.

Well, this has been a nice exercise in trying to understand my own writing, I managed to come up with two very important observations: interpretation and identification. Now All I need to do is explore these two concepts further when I find myself moved by the elements that surround me here in the Swedish Highlands.

In retrospective I seemed to neither stay the course nor fallen of it, at least I’ve managed to not run amok with war conspiratorial theories and spend less time writing on it if that. I do read it, but that is another story. The thing about writing fiction and short stories in a blog is that it consumes more space than am comfortable with. But all is not lost as I am constantly reminded that in reality I’ve only started my writing career with earnest, as a discipline and with gusto and within the course of a years’ writing I can see whether I am made to cut the muster or not, I’m giving myself that leeway, a breather room if you will since I’ve barely made the 6 month benchmark.

So far I’ve gotten tastes and reactions as to what my writing produces. It has also given me many restraints however, daily interaction with blogger and the comments that rise due to the posting thereby could just be a blog phenomenon and hence nothing to do with real writing which is my goal here. What kind of restraints you might ask? Well, it adds heat to the cooking pressure of the internal editor, that’s how, one has to adjust, and does adjust, to the readers imagined expectations, which curiously enough, one builds of said imaginary folk and the values we so imaginatively attach to them. Real writing, and just what is that Mr J? What I mean by real writing is the writing that I ceaselessly pursue, which is the creation of a novel or so thereby.

One goal that I imposed on myself is that of writing 6000 words ( a rumor has it that Vargas Llosa has that for discipline…) a day and I believe that that aspect is slowly but surely coming into fruition as I do write about 2000 words a day these days, although it’s in my three languages… the modest goal would then be 2000 words per language.

ey, no me lo cases – que no es gay? then again I think *everyone is gay* no, really

Logovo slash reader/critic, fan and sci-fi savant.

Comment taken from the comment box in my Spanish blog of jueves, agosto 14, 2003 titled Random Access Blog microphones

I think that as far as the human constitution goes there is room for every possible sexual exploration, tendency, inclination or thereof in a human being.

Heterosexuals are by far the most bisexual of all, according to me. Heterosexuals are just conforming to a sorts of social more to be as indicated by the norms as established and actively encouraged by a group of people who have vested interest in this sort of enforcement as to what a human ought to comport itself to be when sexual emotions are at play.

The brain has a say in this too, but my point here is that everyone has a potential to be gay in the sense that they have homosexual tendencies whether one is a guy or a gal. That includes me, who gladly confesses that he has had several sexual fantasies about sleeping with another guy, albeit, and ideal sorts of human that happens to be of the same sex as I. Most curiously, this sort of wanting happens mostly at a peak in my sexual arousal every now and then.

For the most part I think of sex as a burden, when am sober if one can say that of the sexual urgencies that envelopes one during certain periods of biological redistribution and periodical movements of the bodily fluids, then I tend not to be at all that concerned about sex or its nature.

And before you start jumping to conclusions allow me to express that having sex is most healthy indeed, it’s just that for a sentient being such as I, these sort of cravings come at a weird time and worst of all unexpected thus interrupting other activities that I’m doing. Quite frankly it disturbs me when I’m robbed of my concentration. I say robbed because it feels as though am being pulled away against my will at times. That and hunger, it just gets to me. Anyway, before I start sounding even more defensive I will continue this gay issue in more detail.

I don’t get why there isn’t more acceptance of the myriad aspects of a humans sexual tendencies, as you read this, you might of noticed that I hint at a possible aspect of humanity that it is very much neglected and that is that humans might just not be of just one sexual orientation at all, there could be more and that if sexual tendencies are any indication, sexual urgencies are more animalistic than one is willing to admit. I say animalistic in the sense that there isn’t any control as to how our sexual desires are being expressed except by our repression thereby.

Why do we try to rein in this wild animal in us I can imagine very well, but since we have been trying to put in order, categorizing and setting up rules as to what is and what is not allowed in humanity, we can at the very least allow the human constitution to express those ones that are most healthy without the diatribe that our so-called modern society underpins individuals to submission.

I’m very proud to say that I belong to a culture that has had an indigenous population that has prehispanic roots and that for hundreds of years have been concerned about gender roles in their milieu. This society of old ways, is to be located in a state in Mexico called Oaxaca. Anyways, the point about the genders is that for many years the Juchiteca society was thought of as a matriarchical society since women there took care of many aspects of society that traditionally in the more Western world is done by males. This society has by the most part been anything but that since the daily chores are divided and only in our western perspective do we interpret said society as matriarchical. And just where does the gay issue coming in here Julio? Well, am getting there, here it is, they’ve included and accepted homosexuality as a distinct sexual orientation from that of a man and a woman. They have a respectable position, as I understand it, in society. I knew of this society via the blogsphere since the Spanish one circulated this bit of info much gladly due to that some “muxhe”, as they are called in their native language, were running for congressional seats in their state. I found that amazing, that a society, in my conservative and backward country, indigenous people with annals going back hundreds and hundreds of years are more modern then modernity itself.

Am in utter disbelief that it’s Thursday already, I mean, like yeah, speechless, you know? I woke up and there it was, in yerface! You rise and it’s like, you know, what day is it? and wam! there you have it, someone makes you realize that it’s Thursday, you know? It’s like dumbfounding to know it, I mean, then you start wondering why is it that you’re a day behind, It felt like a Wednesday, early in the week, fresh and perky, nearly having birds chirping in the dawn, slurping the morning dew in the background but nope, it’s Thursday and all the weight of four unaccounted days of your protestant life goes down the waste basket of your Gregorian calender time and up your humpback like a ton of unloaded crap; am just glad that all in all I only regret that I didn’t live up Wednesday more than I did but then again here I am mourning Wednesday on a Thursday …If I could just feel the same way I did before I realized that it was Thursday I think I can get back on the tracks of my time absent mind ….

Some of the Spanish blogs I read and which I keep in my Spanish/spanglish weblog seem kinda strange for this blokehead called J. It is so weird (yes it’s a neologism) that I feel am intruding in a circle where anyone else but the voices in it are part of it. It’s been six months since I entered the TJ sphere and for the most part were looking at a circle of artists, news writers and apparently some are writers which like to hang around with themselves and thus form a certain type of closed circle. There aren’t that many joe average blokes out there. I know my city and it is highly much like the rest of the country, un pais de contrastes, so most of the blogs in that clique are middle class people with their own values, and of very good families, there are about 30 to 40 such blogs and happily, they do not represent the mil or so inhabitants of Tijuana. Like I said, I just feel intrusive, at first I was delighted to find so many blogs that had to do with my city but no sooner I started to read them in earnest that I discovered that they are very conscious of the vocabulary they use, I can just imagine the pressure to adjust to a certain type of code of conduct between themselves and therefore careful of what they write about. At one one I even had to defend spanglish because they so rabidly were dead set against it.

There are very few blogs out there that do speak as if they were out there, in the streets, that is the vocabulary I seek, and every now and then I find a word here and there that confirms my own vocabulary. My social background growing up in my city was of very humble origins, my grandmother had a very modest curious shop in a jungle full of capitalist savages, her being single and raising two children and lived most of the times near the border so money wasn’t really an issue when it came to food but other pleasantries in life were of course a more luxurious event, it sort of reminds me of Edmund Gosse’s child rearing but without the religion involved. Anyways, the point being is that I for one do not feel like I can relate to their values at all and in fact produces anxiety in me whenever I read them, I just can’t seem to swallow their experiences without criticizing them. It’s a clash of values am sure.

I am glad that Tijuana has so many talented youth to represent her and am sure that they are doing a fine job out there in doing their expose’s and I hope the very best for them since they are doing exactly what I would have done so as well had I had the same opportunities as they have. It goes to show that my city is growing in wealth and not just materially but in people who are proud of her as well …

Go Tijuana!

Recently I have made some observations regarding my own writing:

1.- Interpretation is everything: How I interpret is what counts and my contribution to the text. I nearly kicked myself on the butt when I realized that one, duh! like I have been making interpretations since day one, I mean, am a trilingual now!

2.- Writing is a descriptive chore, I am in the business of description and that for others, it is a blatant lie that I am writing for my self, it is an utterly and hedious misconception to myself to accept that as a truth, I write not for me. What I do do is control and have a say in the manner I conduct such description.

Of lately, oh, let us say since Bush’s war with Irak, this blog has been ranting about war issues and what are my interpretation of world affairs. I have come to realize that it is time to make a leaf turn or said more appropriately, to turn a leaf. I wanna concentrate more on my poems and fiction writing, I hope I stay the course …

Ok, back from France …and yes pissed off too!

Do I ever have a bone or two to pick with them. So there am I, and do they even care to speak English? No! They refuse adamantly to even utter a single word from that language which has so much vocabulary that those bastards left when they invaded Normandy. I mean they are so fuc… ugh! I left bitter, I mean don’t even try and buy a piece of bread in English cause you’ll meet the very wall we so jokingly say in jest that one meets with hard headed heads. And get a load of this, even when you address them in English they insistently continue to speak to you in that wretched language of theirs they call French, no offense out there to those of French origins but French folk have a lesson or two to learn when dealing with joe average, I mean if they have a fight to pick with Anglo speakers, hey! take it to them!

So yeah, I retorted to my good faithful Spanish to subjugate them, literally, I swear!

-Here, dame uno de esos!
-Pardon mua monsieur?
-Pardon my ass, dame uno de esos pendejo …!

After hearing my not so docile Spanish many just grimaced and acquised to my desires…

At times I just spoke money, an international language it seems, but I fear I could have been ripped off more than a few times, but I hope no more than 5 euros or so …

What is the blogsphere?

That seems to be the reigning question out there, everyone tries to contend with it or answer it.

What is life?

There is also this thing about definition, what is a blog?

Blah, blah, blah … amazingly enough there is someone doing research on this very topic, academia talk … gotta love it, anyways, why am typing all of this, hum, it all seemed so clear in my head as I sat in the loo, as the Brits are wont to say, thinking about world affairs, the state of world peace and my handy dandy solutions for an everlasting safe and sound environment answer to planet pollution, way before I sat fingers to keyboard, hum, I know I had something utterly vital to say about my self therapeutic rehab attempts …

Oddly enough it seemed to do with the curios phenomena of time. I know I haven’t posted anything to my English blog and it seems like eons ago I posted anything, yet the last time I did was Thursday. Curios, off course time in the internet is another whole ball field. You think you got 24 hours to post anything again anywhere in the vicinity of decency yet the weird aspect is that what this blog reads as one hour I experience another one. Different time zones allow for breathing room and yet, and yet, still give me ample space to keep up with the discipline character that I’ve imposed on myself.

Still, that’s just half of what I wanted to write about …dang!

I read in a computer magazine that they sell at Kvantum that weblogging is the hottest new thing around, could it be? Frankly it worries me when things get popular because the minute it skyrockets in the media’s front pages it means that the new darling of the press will soon fall to its demise.

Weblogging for me is a practice thang to keep abreast with my writing skills and a demonic tendency to believe that I might actually publish something some day, if only I could figure out in what godforsaken language I should do it.Writing in three languages is like having multiple personality disorder, really, one body and three different people acting all very weirdly.

It is a gigantic task to be able to say the only one thing you have to say and believe that you have three different ways of saying it. I’ve discovered that it principle if I have something to say it becomes very difficult to come up with something more original than that even though it was said in a different language, Its repetitious, really.

I wanna write and I wanna become a writer, even a shabby one ..erh …I think am that already, but really, I wanna… I just don’t know how.

I think I finally figured it out, I mean it’s like I have spent thousands upon thousands of neuron cells, good ones too, prima qualité, on the issue. I just couldn’t come to it by any other means, beer, cigarettes and the like erh, forget the like. I just felt like crap and I finally come to a sane and probable cause as to the root of said evil. I’m married and most of the people I hang out with are single. I naturally get a conflicting reaction when I come across them.

This is a nightmare of sorts. People actually wonder what am I doing in their solo midsts. It’s not my fault, I swear to God, but I forget what savage world the single scene can be, everybody is on the hit move. Heat too. The sad truth is that I get accused of hitting on girls just for talking to them, you think am paranoid? Just try and have a normal beer and a normal conversation in a bar anywhere in Sweden and all sorts of paranoia sprouts like wild weed on a hot humid summer day.

Girls will inevitably start wondering why am I even bothering to listen to them when I’m, I believe it to be so, having a common conversation. “Right …” goes through the mind of the now half drunken girl, “you want me!” What the?

Ok, time to go to my wife and kids …nice talking, I think, to you …

It is this sort of paranoia shit I have to put up with some of my friends, I swear to God, I need some real married couple friends to avoid these sort of single entrapments …

My brain longs after it. It’s like wanting to be filled, to feel full again, but with what? Am I the world swallower, Galactus, from the X-men series? To an extent yes, writers do create entire worlds, don’t they? I crave it, you know? A story, I want one, it’s been a while, I need my fill, please, something classical of preference, something that has been established as a story, I tend to disregard new models of story telling. Don’t ask me why, it’s just that I feel that I haven’t even come out of the 19th century at times, and the fact is most of the best literature was written in those days. Nowadays very few writers are as exciting as those from the beginning of the 19th century; nowadays writers are just concerned with money, and they don’t live out their lives as writers did then. Richard Holmes is one of those very few who meet my stringent criteria for such writers, being that he is a modern writer in the sense that he is alive, David Lodge is intelligent. Nothing more, there is nothing artistic about him. On the other hand I could be dead wrong and he be an artist of highest rank.

I get these cravings for literature when I’ve worked on linguistics. It’s as if I’ve famished my lit side of the brain, I haven’t managed to convince that side of the values inherent in having a linguistic powerhouse as one’s ally.

Literature for me is one of those things that nearly compel me to continue writing, except that every time I feel the compulsion I realize I don’t have what it takes. Or at the very least ‘am not ready’ mantra envelops any hope of or attempt at writing. Am practicing for God knows what. I used to half jokingly tell me that I continue to write so that at the very least I learn how to write a good letter, but there is an unconscious impulse at works here, I am headed to ‘somewhere’ it’s just that I won’t know until I get there. I think that am barely getting the ropes or hang of the writing craftsmanship, and therefore need more time, but more time for what?

I don’t like to believe it but more and more am leaning towards it: am not 20 anymore thus I can’t write poetry with that energy that seems to permeate other peoples work. I know that am wrong, and its an excuse to attribute my failed attempts at this ancient art, I just can’t seem to juggle it well. I’m not loosing hope though, there is something about poetry that I want, I want to wrangle images with language.

Today I came across some info about the way Chinese Americans have to adapt their writing methods to fit those of America and I must say I liked what I read. It turns out that Chinese culture doesn’t allow for the writer to logically give away the story as we are want to here in the West, no, no, it’s not allowed at all, the writer is to make the reader think and, get a load of this, no two readers shall have the same interpretation of said work. The writers task is then to force the reader to be an active partaker of the story. Quite fascinating stuff coming from the East I tell you …

Ok, so today we nailed the last nail in the CW writing course, and the coffin is slowly going down in the history grounds. I talked to some of the other students about the success of the shop, and pretty much everyone, (about three people) were rather content, to use sophisticated language, with the outcome. It seems people out there really enjoyed the course, off course they were all girls, so I don’t know how biased the opinions were. Most of the Swedish girls seem to treat the teachers as rock stars and as Swedish standards go the real shit really doesn’t start coming out until the grades roll out. Well, suffice to say, our last CW shop brought good healthy advice from a novelist who seems to know the ropes. Lots of tips and the tip of the hat goes out for Jon for allowing this dude to come in and dish out some of his Via Dolorosa experience through the muck that the publishing businesses seem to be reeling in.

Today we close our Creative Writing course. A course that promised to be exciting turned out to be very strange because we were pretty much left to our own devices, sweden is strange in that way, social contacts acquire a near pathological stress whereby contact is akin to confronting your worst fears face to face. Much of the course I spent talking to (few/some/counted with the fingers of my hand) classmates via the internet yet even there the dialogue in the internet is void and empty as much as the real world would be, as it were Sweden is one of those places where conversation is in the primitive stages and they tend to prefer silence for fear of looking dumb. Strange world, I never really end up understanding any of them. Although they seem to master the muscles in their face to convey all kinds of sardonic expressions and to put down people that way, weird, I never in my life thought that a country puts so much utilitarian value to simple words or daily conversations. No wonder they are so stiff.

Ok, so this was supposed to be a CREATIVE WRITING course …the following then is de rigueur: Did I come anywhere close to approach that which is creative?

I think our teacher did a marvelous job in showing us the different genres out there and what is being associated with creative writing nowadays. For the most part, I think this concept has been hijacked by the more radical deconstructionists types who abhor all sorts of form and desperately want out of the straightjacket they seem to believe academia holds on writing as a whole. Some valid arguments, sure, but not entirely, there is some interesting stuff coming out, certainly from the so-called experimental forms which is rapidly becoming its own genre, maybe we’ll even get them out of our hairs for those of us who still prefer the more Aristolean methods.

At any rate, for this course I think that everyone will have a definition as to what creative was/is/will mean henceforth. For me it just meant getting my ideas out of my head, set them down on a piece of paper or punching them in on the computer. Playing around with the effects of the words/scenes/events and placing them here and there was also jolly good fun and certainly showed me loads that I otherwise wouldn’t have noticed so in that m?n,( I just love that Swedish word, for you non-swedes, respect) I think that creative was fairly well accomplished.

Other issues concerning this course that improved my writing was the issue of editing, I can comfortably say that I am better at editing my own stuff, at the very least.

Well, my Creative Writing course is coming to a screeching halt and off course the evaluations will certainly start rolling in as well.

My concern here is not whether my teacher was a good teacher or if the course delivered that which it promised to deliver.

My only concern here is whether I as a student accomplished anything worthy to remember and whether I learned something or not.

The obvious answer is that yes, I learned something, I learned discipline, discipline to write.

Do I write well or any better than when before I started this course?

Hard to say, but writing needs encouragement and I encourage myself to write everyday. Regardless of whether I have something to say or not.

Indeed, that most valuable lesson here is how to write something to say and package it neatly for the consumption of the masses.

Another thing that comes to mind regarding this Creative Writing course is the issue of voice.

The question then is, did I get/find a voice?

In retrospect, I believe my voice has been thoroughly misunderstood. Having recently gone through most of Maxine Hong Kingston’s Woman Warrior it struck me how familiar the tone of the memoir was to me and that was when it struck me: I have a ‘we’ voice as opposed to a western ‘I’ voice. When I address an audience I tend to prefer a ‘we’ collective as opposed to an individual ‘I’ as is most preferred by English speakers. It’s in my culture. I don’t think that too many people at the English institution are aware of this collective ‘I’ that exists within the non-anglo community within the United States. We speak English as fluently as any other folk but we prefer to address a wider collective as opposed an individual.

Hence my voice tends to be militant, rebellious, and accusatory towards a collective that only exists as an ‘I’

Things to do tomorrow: Stop believing in the USA

I firmly believe that the bible is the devil’s prima facie work

Fiction is the idea that we must invent worlds and that we must somehow demonstrate, for the sheer purpose of the readers sake, a sort of description without giving too much of what is being told. The idea is to allow for the reader to make up its mind of what he or she is reading, in other words, I must leave the facts to stand on their own and that somehow my opinion shouldn’t butt between the reader and what I am writing. This is otherwise known as the Show don’t Tell technique used in most Creative Writing courses. A difficult task indeed because we are more prone to telling than showing. Indeed, one can even argue that at any given moment our culture inculcates didacticism as well. So it reflects very well in what we write hence those of us ambitious enough to embark in the mammoth enterprise of improving our writing skills often end up with our egos bruised and a healthy dose of reality check down our throats. If it so happens that the teacher in question doesn’t have a hidden agenda you’ll get all the support that a teacher really ought to give his or her students and with any luck the above mentioned technique will do wonders to the writing world or at the very least improve your everyday letter writing.

And if the teacher has a hidden agenda, your lucky if you end up at your local therapist couch, such is the nature of writing were words can be daggers sharp enough to cut through the thick muck that we call the world.

Fiction offers unlimited possibilities for the writer at hand who has something vital to say, indeed, for those of us who enjoy a good story, we are more than glad that such people exist, but we must also we willing to admit that the call for the quill and the ink has its own ilk.

‘Voice’ is a hard subject. I feel I have no voice to which I can attach a determined form of writing. However, I do notice that my voice, when am writing, tends to be a melancholic one, a serious one and one that is reflective of what it is writing, As if the way I look at the past affects my writing. Rarely do I tend to write on the future. Perhaps I say I don’t have a voice because I exhaust my reading material by the time I reach to English. At any rate, voice is a fruitless job to think of at times. What is a voice anyways? When does one feel finished as a writer to be able to have a voice, does it mean that I lack one now? Does it mean that I must search a form of writing?

Curiously enough I’ve detected that one can become ‘dried’ out if you will from inspiration. One is forced to go to the fountain of inspiration and fill ones chalice every now and then with other writers thoughts. Thoughts produce thoughts and now that I’ve been largely absent from literature I see a dearth of topics to write. On the other hand it has given me a great deal to think of my writing and how it works.

I want to write something beautiful, I don’t know what but I hope that I’ll soon know. I believe I like writing because somehow I too want to depict scenes. The problem is that I don’t have much to say. However, I like words so much I spend a great deal of time reading them. I am in the habit of always picking them up everywhere I find them. I make lists of them if I find strange and odd words and the more I know about a particular word the more I become interested in it. I find my relationship with words a strange one because I often find them difficult to deal with only to comeback to them later. I also tend to forget them very easily and at times it bothers me when I can’t spell them. It causes me to wonder if am not developing Alzheimer’s or some sort of mental ailment. But in general my relationship with words tends to be friendly. I gather great joy out of them when using them as I write along and quietly detect how words link phonetically to each other.

I don’t know if it has been done before but since I certainly haven’t seen it done in the English language am giving it a shot. Although I must confess that it worries me that it has been done before. I frankly don’t know and am doing it, if and only, for the sheer purpose of writing practice because I certainly don’t consider myself, by a long shot, anything but an apprentice of the craft. I am referring to a short sort-of experiment that I am developing and that has been shown here in this blog [Yonder lies it Thursday, April 03, 2003]. It is what I like to say, to borrow a well known concept within the painting arts, a triptych. The idea is to present a three character story and a scene whereby the three characters meet. The end or results or consequences would then have to be figured out by the reader. I got the idea from a film by mexican director Alejandro González Iñarritu called Amores Perros, translated loosely as “Love’s a Bitch“. (quotation from preceding link) I believe it presents many possibilities for mental entertainment. Anyways, I hope it turns out well.

On writing

When I write I like it when it gives rise to phonological linkage. This happens very much in both my native tongues, Spanish and English, as Swedish is still hatching from the shell it is incubating in.

When a line comes to mind and I write it down, type it, remember it by heart etc, etc … I make a conscious decision or an effort, exercise to tag along the sounds said sentence gives rise to.

Sometimes I get so bogged down by this that the image comes second to melody.

I’ve noticed that more and more I like to say ‘more and more’, it seems to be my favorite intensifier now a days …

Anyways, more and more I try to keep, with much success, if I may so humbly opine that of myself, my language consistent in as much as it remains in the same semantic field.

Off course the good staff at the Department of English in Stockholm have much to do in this awareness awakening since it has been by their guidance that I’ve come upon this self-discovery.

Digress, digress …

I try, in conjunction with sounds to, themselves?, evoke, suggest, imagery.

In the future I would like to create image clashing, but that is another topic for another blog …

Lastly: I pursue the image through vocal sounds that the very words I use produce when they are pronounced. I like how sounds, by their very pronunciation can give rise, hint, suggest other imagery that it is not necessarily implied by the very text one reads, but rather by the sound in it ….