:: Omnia Mutantur ::
Comments, rants and reviews. Stories and photographs.| [::..archive..::] |
|---|
| [::..recommended..::] |
| :: Ginger Snaps [>] |
| :: Ghost girl photo [>] |
| :: Printing from The Gimp [>] |
| :: Mandrake Linux[>] |
| :: The latest on the GA-7ZXR / FastTrack Promise 100 Lite [>] |
:: Saturday, May 31, 2003 ::
:: Thursday, May 22, 2003 ::In A Bar
There are fragments, conversations, scenes, that I'd like to include in other things I'm writing - but I'm certain that if I wait they'll just vanish and I'll never see them again, or be able to put them down in paper properly. They're small snapshots of inexistent moments that I want to preserve.
Here's another one.
"I don't lie" - he said leaning back into the bar, gazing out towards the party-goers at the club.
She cleared her hair from his face with an almost automatic gesture that she knew made her look incredibly desirable.
"You didn't lie then, or ever?"
"I don't lie, ever"
"Are you bad at it?"
"On the contrary, I'm excellent at it." He paused to take a sip of his drink. "I'm so good at it I keep trying to top myself, and if I don't keep it in check the lying gets out of control and I hurt people."
"Please, you're exaggerating".
"Whatever" - he shrugged.
That annoyed her, which was the whole point.
"Show me. Lie to somebody"
"I told you, I won't do it."
"Why?"
"I won't just go and randomly hurt somebody for you. I won't."
She paused, thinking about it, and then a mischievous glitter appeared in her eyes.
"Lie to me, then."
"What?"
"Lie to me. Make me believe something that's not true."
"Such as?"
"I don't know, do I have to think about everything myself?" - she threw her head back, looking just like the little spoiled brat she was inside, and a thought crossed her eyes. "I know - make me believe that you love me."
"I ..." - he started, stammered, and stopped, looking away from her upturned face - "I can't".
"Hah! I knew it! You can't lie!"
"I can lie" - he whispered - "But I can't lie about that to you."
"Why no, huh? Some other strange moral qualms, or a twisted honor code?"
He paused, and she looked down at his hands. The left hand was fidgeting restlessly with his pant's pockets while the right one shaking, softly but constantly, so much that he had to put his drink on the bar. When she looked up at him his face looked flushed and his eyes were locked down.
"Are you OK? What happened?"
"Nothing, it's just that.."
"If it's about lying, don't worry - I just didn't know you felt as strongly about it" - she reached up and stroked his hair and the side of her face, tenderly, to calm him. And he leaned down, rested his head on her shoulder and whispered on her ear something that rammed onto her like a speeding truck.
"I can't lie about it because I do love you."
His head held there for an eternity of seconds, quiet but for the slow breathing on her temple. Her hand was still at the back of his head, where it had frozen in surprise at his confession. Slowly he disentangled himself from her embrace, pulling back from her body and with surgical care removing every possible area that was in contact with her. When he sat back on the bar stool, she finally exhaled and collapsed on hers.
She couldn't think of anything but the obvious.
"Why hadn't you told me?"
He just shrugged.
"You should have told me, you know." - she emptied all her mental cabinets, looking for something appropriate - "We've been going out for a while. It involves me, I suppose I had the right to know".
He didn't even shrug this time, and they both stared ahead at their mirrored images behind the bottles. He finished his White Russian and signaled for the bartender.
"Two Ojos Inocentes, please"
The bartender mixed the shots and handed them to him. He passed one to her. Both raised their glasses on a wordless toast and then downed them in one shot.
"So" - she said, more composed now - "How come?"
He raised an eyebrow quizically. "How come what?"
"How come you love me?"
He seemed to search for words for a second.
"You're free. You're so much freer, more alive than me" - he gestured away her attempted interruption. "When we talk, or dance, or drink, you're absolutely absorbed in the moment, with nothing else holding you back. And this freedom is so interwoven with yourself, that you don't even understand what I'm talking about, because you can't possibly imagine being any other way."
He breathed in, and she reached down and held his hands.
"But why hadn't you told me? If you feel this strongly about it, why never mention it?"
"Because I feed from your energy, drinking from the strong, pure, unchecked emotions that spill out from you. I'm addicted to you now, and I was afraid that if I just told you, you would flip out and never go clubbing with me again because you would feel weird about it."
He let his eyes slide down towards their hands, and finished.
"I would rather not risk that sort of half-life."
Moments later she let go of his left hand, and with it softly pushed his chin up to make eye contact again.
"I ... I never thought... Maybe you did right not telling me before, I don't know. Maybe I would have reacted differently if you didn't tell me, if I didn't know how strongly you really feel about it."
She pushed herself up a bit and softly kissed him on the lips before continuing.
"Thanks. Thanks for telling me. For saying all those nice things about me." - she smiled beatifically, and blushed - "I think I might love you too."
He straightened up, his expression changing, confusing her. Turning towards the bartender, he signaled for another round of shots.
"There you go" - he said.
She blinked, a sleepwalker who had suddenly found herself on an alien place, not comprehending.
"What?"
He paid for the shots, downed his, and looked back at her once more. The mixture of love and confusion she had seen before was gone, replaced by his usual cold sheen.
"You did want me to lie to you, right?"
:: Ricardo J. Méndez 1:27 AM [+] ::
...
:: Saturday, May 17, 2003 ::About Fight Club
I wrote this a couple of years ago for a now-defunct Costarrican web site. It started as a literary review, and ended up turning into something more personal.
Enjoy. That is, if you can read Spanish.
FIGHT CLUB
La primera regla para escribir un comentario es no forjarse una
idea de antemano. La segunda regla para escribir ...Fight Club me deja boquiabierto en el cine, y luego Fight Club me tasajea el ego al enterarme que es el primer libro del autor, escrito mayormente a mano en libretas amarillas, debajo de trailers, por un mecánico de camiones.
Todavía con la lengua en un nudo por la película que David Fincher nos acaba de dar intravenosa, alguien me pregunta "¿Y te vas a leer el libro?".
Angustia. Inseguridad. Insomnia. Sudor frío corriéndome por la autoestima. Si el libro es igual de extraordinario que la película, si un escritor puede lograr algo así en su primer intento, no vale la pensa seguir escribiendo.
Y de repente se me ocurre que todo esto tiene mucho que ver con un escritor llamado Chuck Palahniuk.
Yo vivía tranquilo en mi vida de clase media, promedio, escribiendo cada dos o más días y convenciéndome de que eso era hacer progreso. Y él lo arruinó todo.
Palahniuk, con su prosa rápida y sus líneas memorables. Palahniuk, esa llaga de inseguridad en el costado de mi ego que sanaría si tan solo dejo de meterle la uña y me decido a comprar el libro, pero no puedo.
¿Qué si es igual de brillante que la película?
¿Qué si es mejor?
Luego de agonizar por varios meses, consigo una copia. Esta se queda en el escritorio semanas, esperando ser leída. Esperando el momento de coraje. Cuando el libro llega a la casa, mi autoestima toma una .45 y se la pone en la sien. Una vez que lo he terminado, ha recuperado el sentido de vivir.
Esa vieja línea de como el arte altera nuestra percepción, bueno, funciona en ambas direcciones.
Al principio me cuesta avanzar en el libro, porque no puedo sacarme las voces de Ed Norton y Brad Pitt de la cabeza, repitiendo los mantras de Tyler tanto para mí como para los Monos Espaciales y Hellena Bonham Carter. Donde Palahniuk cambia una palabra (no! el guionista!) mi mente chilla frenos y compagina. Luego de un varios encontronazos el editor en mi cerebro se reclina y decide dejarme que lea tranquilo.
No podían adaptar la película de ninguna otra forma. El libro y la película fluyen perfectamente, pero la película tiene más tiempo a Tyler al frente. Donde otros rejurgitan sus líneas en el libro, Tyler mismo las dice en la sala de cine. Donde un Mono Espacial estrella un auto en la autopista para tener una experiencia de casi-vida en el libro, es Tyler el que conduce en la película y confronta al narrador con sus inseguridades.
Pero siempre el mensaje, tatuado por ambos medios en la parte de atrás de nuestra retina, es el mismo: estamos desperdiciando nuestra vida absorviendo la comida chatarra que nos sirve la televisión, observando a Ross nalguear a Chandler o quejarse por enésima vez en años acerca de su esposa lesbiana, en lugar de aprovechar el tiempo para ser nosotros. Estamos esperando que Calvin Klein o Tommy Hilfiger nos digan quienes somos, nos definan lo que valemos por la etiqueta de las desechables prendas que usamos.
Entiendo algo finalmente. Al repetirle a los Monos Espaciales lo inminente de su muerte hasta el punto que no pueden hacer nada más que interiorizarlo, Tyler no está únicamente forjando samurais que puedan actuar enfocados con una falta de angustia ante la posibilidad de fallecer. También les está diciendo que dejen de jetear y se enfoquen en vivir.
Todos queremos ser alguien más. La gran ventaja de Tyler Durden está en que él ya lo es.
Es solo de esperarse que el libro le agarre a uno la cabeza y le pegue una buena sacudida antes de ponerla en su lugar de nuevo. No se podía esperar que un proceso así fuera indoloro.
Al final el libro resulta ser una buena novela, no una enceguecedora obra de arte y no mejor que la película pero sí la enclaustrada zona de incubación que provee el único ambiente del que este contagio puede brotar. Ambas juntas, además, crean una sensación que una sola de ellas no podría darte.
Antes de morir quiero publicar un libro. Una historia. Lo que sea. Pero no me voy a ir a podrirme solo.
Habiendo terminado de leer el libro, llego un día a la casa y encuentro al gato mordisqueandole una esquina. Monto en ira por un momento antes de decidir que en realidad es apropiado que Fight Club vaya por la vida con algunas cicatrices. Es lo que Tyler quería.
:: Ricardo J. Méndez 1:04 AM [+] ::
...
:: Saturday, May 03, 2003 ::This is nothing, this is nothing. Piece of cake.
The current US Government seems to be Wag The Dog to the Nth power.
:: Ricardo J. Méndez 2:06 PM [+] ::
...
The Dante's Inferno Test has banished me to the Second Level of Hell!
Here is how I matched up against all the levels:
Level Score Purgatory (Repenting Believers) Very Low Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers) Very Low Level 2 (Lustful) Very High Level 3 (Gluttonous) High Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious) Very Low Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy) Very High Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics) Very High Level 7(Violent) Very High Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers) High Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous) High
Take the Dante Inferno Hell Test:: Ricardo J. Méndez 10:50 AM [+] ::
...
