Friday, July 10, 2015
If you have the privilege of understanding Spanish, please do listen to Jorge Drexler. He's an Uruguayan musician, and perhaps his music is good, but I really just listen to him for the lyricis.
And, as many people before me have said, the charmiest of charms about the Spanish language is its gentle sensuality, its poetic musicality and rich sounds and words. I will never know if my love for Chilean folkloric music comes from the beauty of its lyrics, or from the earthiness of its sounds. Honestly, it's a conflict that doesn't need resolution.
English is a harder deal. There's beautiful lines such as Between the click of the light and the start of a dream to which I owe Arcade Fire eternal gratitude. And, so, so many Fleet Foxes aphorisms that I would tatoo all over my body in order to become a more beautiful human being. And, of course, the immortal Smiths, with their treasure chest full of enigmatic lyrics, and oh, why not quote the most clichéd and gorgeous of 'em all, To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.
Please, dear readers, do recommend songs that vibrate with the words woven into them. There is nothing I enjoy more than poetry made music.
Thursday, July 9, 2015
The first "grown-up" book I ever read was Anne of Green Gables. I was in third grade.
Thereupon beginning a new epoque in my life.
Years later, whilst roaming my school library, I stumbled upon a most surreal reality: Anne was not one book, but many.
And so, the epoque in my life out-spun itself into many years of reading and re-reading, of discovering the Emilys and rebelling against associating the Anne from the movie to the Anne from my dreams.
The Anne from my dreams became my imaginary friend, the one whom I whispered secrets to at night. And then the Anne transmuted into the recipient of my diary's letters, dear old Anne, because she surely understood.
Understood about dreams and about fairyland and about crazy assaults of the imaginations which make you cringe with the unspeakability of them. Oh, Anne, she was wont to understand how my love for the sea hurt, how flowers had a joy elixir within their petals that I craved all winter long, how the raindrop on the roof was the music that fairies danced to at their balls, and how trees had souls and were infinitely, infinitely wise.
It's been over a year since I last read a truly bewitching book. It was Metaphysics of the Tubes by Amélie Nothomb, in May of 2014. And I was beginning to fear for my reading habits, for my reading needs, when I decided to crack open the Emily books again.
Last night, I read for hours after going to bed. I had almost forgotten that books are stronger than circadian cycles.
After an hour or two of traipsing through Prince Edward Island, I broke into tears and reiterated "Thank you God"s.
And thank you, LM Montgomery, for letting me discover through the pages of your literary daughters a passion for reading (and a passion for nature, and for learning, and for home sweet homes.)
And thank you, LM Montgomery, for reminding me of this passion for reading when I feared for it the most. (Damn you Law School.)
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Friendships are confusing because, as most things, they're things of gloss and sprinkles when first acquired
and full o' flaws when already gone through the washing machine several times.
And after all that wear,
all them flaws you've come across,
to take out the calculator,
Is the sum o' these flaws just what make it your favourite sweater
or a mere piece of clothing you have to wear less often.
(I have friends who are not perfect, in fact, are far from perfect, friends who live continents away, and friends whom I have to constantly be consoling. But it's worth it.
And I have friends that have not as many flaws, but oh the pointedness of the ones they indeed have, make of them the people whom you would depend on for no more than "hanging."
This is not groundbreaking.
But it's the kind of thing that every so often
needs to be said.)
PS. Clarification: Just as poetry can be written in prose, I sometimes attempt to write prose in verse. I wasn't really trying to write poetry. I just like to press the enter bar.
Sunday, June 21, 2015
Siddhartha I looooved. Which is also totally unfair, because I really did read it at the perfect moment. I was going back to yoga, eating a lot of fruit, utterly happy about my life, and this book seemed like complete illumination and I just couldn't stop crying.
Demian was fine, but I knew nothing about Hesse's obsession about Eastern thought when I read it and I was like wtf half the time. I think that if I read it again my thriving psychomagicness would do a tribal dance over the cadaver of my dead rationalism.
And I just finished Steppenwolf, which at first made me think "this book really gets me. Fuck burgeouis ethos." But I did not enjoy it much and I don't think any of its profound psychobabble really got through to me.
But still, Hesse's probably one of my favourite authors of all time. GO BEATNIK FEELZ.
Thursday, June 18, 2015
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
|Chile, Chile, lindo.|
I've been driving around a lot lately. And not just 'cuz my university's on strike, although that's a huge part of it (you know, trying to fill in the dole winter-in-Santiago hours.) Friends, readers, family: The beauty of podcasts has entered my life.
Every minute that I spend behind the wheel is one where these magical words enter my ears and dance around my brain to a beat that says "ideas, ideas, ideas." I'm hearing wonderful people from around the globe talk about the marvels that come to their minds and every nerve of mine is charged with awe at the things that are going on in this world while Santiago remains being Santiago and the people in Santiago remain worried about our little-corner-of-the-world things.
And my friends that study abroad are slowly coming back home from their diaspora of knowledge-seeking, and they come back with tales of wonder that I can hardly believe they actually lived through. Classrooms with teachers that do more than just recite, and friends with minds that do more than just gossip, and I am full of envy. Envy and love, love for these friends who have such great minds and personalities that every moment I share with them is inspiring.
I love you, Chilito lindo, I love you so much, but you are starting to feel too tight. To small for a world that is oh, so big. And I love your poets and I love your mountains and I love your trees, but your people are starting to bore me, and I want to go out, permanently, to seek...
Friday, June 5, 2015
In spite of the relief that the autumnal leaves give the eye, Santiago's relentless contamination, noise, anxiety, conflict
and one finds the need to escape
geography has the potential for peace
the sea holds peace
the trees inspire peace
and one feels a renaissance of hope
PS. And there's something so particular about the seaside during wintertime.
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Monday, May 25, 2015
I'm a Law Student (nobody knows why) in a very politicized university and although I have a fair amount of talent for humanities and a fair amount of interest in politics, it's not who I am.
I like music and poetry and nature and people that make me laugh, and these might be COMMON THINGS but then why am I the only one that feels so eternally bored by this eternal talk about societies and injustices, when what I see around me are people and emotions?
I'm blind to society, which in my mind, is an artificial construct that is nowhere to be seen.
I see people.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
The memory of eleventh grade has been cycling through my thoughts a lot as of late. Because, unfortunately, I fear I've grown up. And there are more arguments to this conclusion than just my newfound self-control with alcohol.
This nostalgia for eleventh grade has not a thing to do with how much fun I had during that year (I was miserable 'till September.) It has absolutely all to do with the eviscerating passion that distinguished this year from any other. I have never read, written, listened to music, or loved a boy with the blind fury I did two years ago.
In fact, if I could live one year all over again, in spite of the misery and the angsty or drunken mistakes I reiteratively made, it would be eleventh grade.
I took out that year's notebook to relive that passion.
Here's one of the dooderdaffles I wrote back then:
An Open Letter to Seventeen
You are a number.
You could be 19, or 32, perhaps 5, or maybe even 47. But no, you chose to be 17.
Some could say Seventeen was "built." People, Seventeen is not Rome. It is not built in a day, nor in seventeen years. Seventeen is not built, but sort of created, in a mish-mash of stupid romances, of masturbating whilst listening to rock music, of downing a whole litre of cookies and cream ice cream and then crying and then vomiting, of nights racing from one point of the city to the next and then not remembering a thing (through the headache) the next day, a collection of 8:00 AMs pretending to take notes but actually doodling out lyrics in the margins, of professing love for coffee when it's really for the high, of smoking to look cool, of playing guitar to look cool, of wearing jean jackets and skinny jeans and jean shirts to look cool, of crying in the bathroom so as not to risk that coolness, of writing poetry (on your wrists, with knives), of making playlists but then never uploading or burning them, of ogling at books without reading them, of ogling at notes without studying them, of ogling at bodies without touching them, of ogling at phone numbers without calling them, of making mistakes, should be making more, sneaking the car out, crashing into another car before reaching the pavement, of hating your hair, her hair, loving his, shouting at your parents, seeking their hugs, wishing I could fly somewhere else, being homesick, listeing to music to ignore the noise, listening to noise to ignore the life, jogging out the litre of ice cream that you couldn't bring yourself to vomit, getting tired after the first mile, stopping after the second, to lay on the grass, look at the clouds, and see them go by…
Seventeen, I don't understand you, because I don't understand myself. But that's okay, I'll keep on trying. I've got until Eighteen catches me, after all.
And I hope it won't!
(Wishing I could commit all of those mistakes over again. Wishing the climax of my life hadn't been eleventh grade.)
An Almost Twenty-Year Old
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
|Picture of my trip to NYC a few weeks ago that has absolutely nothing to do with the matter of the post.|
I tweeted something about interior design a few days ago, and it got me a bunch of Martha Stewartish new followers, so I guessed if I did a whole blog post on interior design, it might get me on TV or something.
The only problem is that this post is not going to be about interior design per-se, but about the fact that I have realized that, when it comes to picturing my dream habitat, it inevitably falls either into the category of adorable house or funky loft.
- Whereas I summon dreams of the beautiful garden with an abundance of poplars and cherry trees and flowers of all sorts I would have, I imagine the funky loft as being (obviously garden-less but) an oasis full of funky, funky house plants. Succulents and the like everywhere.
- While in my dreams the adorable house is located at least considerably in the middle of nowhere, a quiet, quiet place, the funky loft is naturally set in the middle of Providencia or another really alive and diverse neighbourhood of the like.
- The adorable house is decorated in wooden tones and homey shit like, who knows, flowery quilts and knitted whatnots and I seriously haven't given this part much thought. I do know, however, that the funky loft has very, very funky art noveau (that's the one from the 50's, right?) deco, and a collection of vinyls and very cool art.
- Yet both have very loved bookshelves.
The adorable house is basically a very Anne of Green Gables aesthetic.
The funky loft basically looks like my writing workshop teacher's home:
Friday, April 17, 2015
I've become a lazy blogger and resorted to this:
Crossing out the shit I've done
Upping the font size of shit I'm about to do