Saturday, November 30, 2013

Ah yes

They see me rollin', they hatin'
The advent of full-fledged adulthood practically meant one thing to me: DRIVING.

(Legal driving age is 18 in Chile.)

Yes, because, honestly, I care about voting and all, and about the buying alcohol and cigarettes thing, and about getting into clubs without having to jump all the freaking hoops in the universe, but nothing, absolutely nothing beats driving.

(Do not misunderstand me; I am a public transport fan, but, honestly. I live in the suburbs. All the fun is really far away from here.)

And now that I soar through Santiago's poorly planned streets on my endless quest to reach my destination without getting killed along the way, there is, oh yes, a to-do list to be completed in order for me to be the utterly coolest driver in the city:

  1. I need the freaking best CD collection in the 'hood.
  2. I need to find the purrrrfect driving sunglasses.
  3. I need to learn how to change lanes without risking about 10 lives in the process.
  4. Keep a decent bag of makeup in the car for me to apply all my shindyshags while stuck in traffic, looking like a complete boss.
  5. I think the list ends here.

Roads, here I come.

Friday, November 29, 2013

#14 B4 18: Paint a Mural

It's a work in progress. I don't want to finish it in a hurry, as the process has been a gradual one and very enjoyable. So, wait up yo'.

I just wanted to demonstrate that hey I did it! #14, check.

Thursday, November 28, 2013


Just when did feet photos get so fashion.




AND I HAVE TO LAY ON MY BUTT WITH 30ºC WEATHER. (I'm sorry you loser Fahrenheit people.)

Just, like, are you kidding me?

I want to run, swim, walk, dance, jump, hug, twirl, swirl, aerobicize and gymnasticize my way through life.

And I'm stuck on my BUTT. Fat and ugly BUTT.

This is G-d giving me a lesson for idolizing Frida Kahlo too much.

Monday, November 25, 2013

17 B4 18: Sky Gazing

Because there is nothing more liberating than sky gazing. It's like flying with the certainty that you will never fall. It's acknowledging infinity from your humble morsel of atoms, a moment full of God, it's sinking into the grass with your soul high up. When I think "I need a break," I think "I need a moment for laying on the grass with my eyes set on the clouds."

I included this in my "17 B4 18" list to have an excuse for taking an infinite amount of pictures of the sky. The sky's our friend, our neighbour, we're a part of it and it's in and around us; and yet it's so much bigger than us.

PS. I'm a bit behind on this, so this will be "updating on 17 B4 18" week. So that we can move on to 18 B4 19. Which, honestly, is like long due.

Sunday, November 24, 2013


In our current YOLOing, Tumblring, Justin Biebering culture, hamburgers are sacred.

I think we can all agree on this?

(Well, unless you live in India. In which case, you can of course call them as sacrilegious as you wish.)

It's not so much that hamburgers might be delicious (although they are) it's the pleasure of taking a picture of it, of feeling that you're gaining fat in a way so worthy of the pain that you'll have to sweat at the gym afterwards, it's about how you're being so effin' TEEN and GOSH and everything while eating it.

Pizza and hamburgers. That's the culture we live in. Let's revel.

Side note: I have always found it strange how we glorify eating and yet glorify ridiculously thin frames. Like, how bulimic are we?

Thursday, November 21, 2013

Through Surreality

The privilege of traveling has also given me an interesting side-gift: It has given my father the opportunity to transmit to me his love for art through hours roaming the curios of museums. (Honestly, I really doubt my siblings share the love.)

And I have been unfaithful! Because, even if the Impressionists were always owners of my love, and I would spend far more apprehending and dreaming with a painting by Degas, by Monet (who always was my favorite of favorites), and by Rembrandt than anything else, a gradual change has been taking place ever since I saw Dali's Last Supper back in May.

Now I wish I could spend more time sleeping just for the sake of dreaming! (The subconscious, the ego, the superego, the id... I wish I could live in dreamland all the time, to be fully concious of the magic that I am sure exists within every one of us.)


My favorite by far is Joan Miró:

Everything I love about Joan Miró. Playful, alive, and yet transmitting so much. I believe that. what Surrealism' s worth in "idealistic" views, Miró portrayed the best.
To learn more about Joan Miró, check out this wonderful Arsty page. Artsy is a website dedicated to make the world's art accessible to everyone, a mission that I totally dig.

I have already talked about my love for Salvador Dalí:

Another beloved favorite, René Magritte:

And last but not least, Friducha:

Although Frida herself at some point denied her belonging to the Surrealist movement, this was not a completely valid statement; she did in fact, participate within much of Surrealism's circles, and was very probably influenced by it. However, I think she was right; I wouldn't call her a Surrealist either, but rather, something much more latino: Magical Realist. Although Magical Realism is generally applied to literature, why not extend the border to painting?

Let's go dream, shall we?

PS. I've always wanted to be a gifted visual artist. Even if it might be too late to discover this gift, it is never too late to become a muse, ain't it?

Friday, November 15, 2013

Goodbye, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehn, Goodnight

Because I have pretty nice parents, and probably due to my awesomeness as a daughter, my 18th bithday was ocassion for me to be the humble recipient of a brand new shiny funsome terrifical magificentish computer! Of which I'm very greatful because the shit I used to have was hardly usable.

Anyhow, I'm currently undergoing the FUN FUN FUN process of moving all of my virtual shit from one homeplace to another. The sad thing is that there is a bunch of stuff that doesn't quite qualify for the transport. They are the random pictures I have collected over years of online meandering, nomading, adventuring, intothewilding.

Here are pictures to whose origin I cannot testify, but boy, it has been fun having them on my desktop for those oft moments with slow or nonexistent internet where all I have to do is look at them.

Once again, thank you, and good bye.

PS. If any of you know where these come from, please do comment and I will make sure to credit the owners. Especially of that last picture. My Gosh, it's ARRRT!

Friday, November 8, 2013

I'm 18

This is not cool on so many levels.

PS. I might be getting the grievances post-facto.

Thursday, November 7, 2013

Grievances I Do Not Feel (For a Change)

I am turning 18 and I couldn't give a greater shit.

Ok, yes, I was going to have a cool party with a DJ and tons of people invited and booze, and that didn't work out just because I gave up listening to my Dad's nagging, but, other than that, I couldn't give a shit.

I think I've told this story before, but birthdays are a time for retelling; the reason this blog came unto being was because I was a few short weeks from turning 17, and in Math class (because Math class for me is a creative space, as I am wont to be thinking about anything but math) I had a friggin' epiphany and it was all like "man, I'm turning 17... and have done nothing with my life yet. Like, SE Hinton wrote The Outsiders at 16." So I created this blog to at least feel like I was blogging. (For some reason, I always feel useful when I'm blogging, even if I should be studying instead. It's like I'm veritably leaving something to posterity.)

Anyhow, conclusion: This blog exists because I was turning 17 and felt that I hadn't done anything with my life. Now, I'm turning 18, and I feel whatever. (Yes, I did so just turn whatever into an adjective.)

This year, I've done a bunch of crap that makes me feel like I'm on the right track.

I've written a shitload.

I've read less than usual but enough.

I've blogged. Not as steadily as one would wish, but I've blogged.

I've learned, I've grown, I've gotten better at playing the guitar, and at being less socially awkward.

I haven't stopped for a second, and I regret nothing. Ok, maybe I regret a few things, but they're mostly late night anxiety Oreo-binges.

Anyways, I might be turning 18 and not have done something great yet, but I just might be on the right track.

Tommorow's birthday-day, and yes: Besides my excitement for cake, I couldn't give a shit.

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

The Power of Teach


Dead Poets Society, along with Frida and Forrest Gump, is one of my favorite movies.

Anne of Avonlea is one of my favorite books.

Because I love education.

The teacher that has been dearest to me in my life, the inspiring, vivacious, witty young soul who has the bravery to stand there for an hour and a half each day to talk about love, passion, words and ideals, to a group of uninsterested young things, was supposed to teach me for two years in a row; but she is pregnant (with twins) and so the classes I have left with her are few.

I cry at least once every day, but that was a day in which I cried throughout the day.

Motherhood and babies are wonderful things, but still, I cried. And all the intuition that I had in me that I want to teach grew into a sizable passion of I WANT TO TEACH, because of a single young woman who has delivered what she believes in with passion every day of her working life.

Thank you, miss, for teaching us so much more than what is in the books.

If I have the privilege in this life, to motivate one soul to pursue and learn and live, and I have the privilege of living thanks to that, I will. I might be scared, because of annoying and uncooperative children, because of routine, because of so many things.

But I know this is right for me.

I sort of can't put it into words more than that right now. I might write a poem or two about it, but, for now, this one suffices:

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

What is "Used" in a Used Book

I have added another to my list of dream jobs; that of book tender in a used books stand.

I assume it's not exclusive to Santiago, but at least in Santiago, there are many stands where used books are sold, in fairs and so on.

I find it cool to dedicate yourself to the recycling of thoughts, words, ideas. Beyond cool. 

PS: My favorite moment comes when, upon opening the front cover of a battered edition, I find myself with a poem, or a dedication; it's as if the past lives of authors and readers alike converge in one unique object.

Sunday, November 3, 2013

A Year and a Half

Dear Blogging World,

I write this letter to you because, full of teen angst as it seems to be from my teeny and angsty perspective, I think you will have a lot of experience to share or at the very least, compassion.

Love sucks.

A sizable part of my oft-visited Twitter feed is full of fun-facts that are good for nothing but fun. Except for the extremely occassional fact, it is doubtful that I will ever learn something useful from the fun-fact tweets. Except for one I read a few weeks ago.

"After four months, a crush can be considered love."


I sincerely do not find it fair that, what with the world being full of hunks and babes or at least mildly interesting humans, I can't forget ONE of them. It makes me feel like a) a bad feminist, and b) a shitty fun-haver.

Ok, I still have the fun, but I'm missing out on the love. (The Beatles wouldn't be proud.)

Edited to add: A very insightful reader pointed that it's rather ridiculous to say anything like "bad feminist." Although I did say it in jest, I agree whole-heartedly. Thank you reader!! For reminding us that there's no such thing as bad feminism, at least up to a certain point.

Because, Blogging World, after a year and a half of having my heart undeniably set on one guy, I have resigned myself to what seems inevitable; the soul matey shit.

I believe in God, I believe in His Will, I believe that He has set every one of us on the world to fullfill a Greater Purpose, and this is not going to be an annoying rant on religion, but, see, let's do the math.

I am turning 18 in a week. If I have spent 1.5/18, that is, 3/36, that is 8.3333% of my life still stuck on the same long-haired, guitar-playing, poetry-writing, physics-loving DOUCHEBAG then I've got no hope.

He's the one for me.




Whatever. I'm a loser in the love game.

After a year and a half, I think I'm used it.

Just, whatever.
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