I want to have a bookstore
to be my bookstore
the end of this
An era of
made at the bookstore
like my ex
I can get a job
find a love
post poems about orgasms
write poems about orgasms
all because of a bookstore
all because of the books
that I should buy
from someone who cares
who am I kidding
I only want this for myself
to be the kind of person
that has a bookstore
that goes in
and can boast
being a friend
of the bookstore.
Saturday, March 16, 2019
Bitterness. Because I had no pictures to go with this text.
That is why you don't succeed as a blogger; you never remember to take the worthwhile pictures.
And then, brightening-up: Are the pictures necessary?
Are they necessary to describe the odor of a habit of coffee, stale (mildly flowery) and accommodated into the place, but welcoming and familiar? Most certainly not.
Would they be enough to encompass the turbulent accumulation of books, mildly turbulent in subject-matter, exceedingly so in array, towering over everyone and everything and covering all available space? Absolutely not.
Could they purport to describe the labyrinthine ambiance of a 2x4 room drowning in papers forgotten, pictures incoherent, posters and letters confused and displaced? Of course, no.
And yet the friendliness of this chaos, of this crazy yet intellectual chaos, that is beyond a still-frame also. In spite of one's occasional preoccupation regarding rats, regarding mold, regarding how easily things are lost in such a place, one is welcome, there are enough chairs, there are enough cups of coffee and tea, occasionally there is cheese or grapes, one sits down and has a laugh and perhaps thinks a philosophical thought or two, one occasionally works, but it has become home, a frightening home, yes, a dauntingly messy one, yes, but one grows to love it and admire a person that can function in a room that aspires so dignifiedly to be an Aleph.
Wednesday, March 6, 2019
Blogging is going through an existential crisis, and the blogger in me is cris'ing with it.
I have given this point so much thought the past, I don't know, years. After all, blogs were there when I was a young pre-teenagerlet of eleven who had to wear a back brace to school every day, plagued by demons about how unloved she was going to be because of the freakish way the plastic thing she had to wear around her torso made her look. I had to go to school and suffer, yes, but then I would go home and was free to read endless blogs were so many cool people shared their lives and nobody could prevent from pretending that I was one of them.
Suddenly, though, that died.
It died partly because I was no longer suffering in the real world. I am 23 now. More than a decade has gone by since I first discovered blogging, and I have come to own the spot I inhabit in this world. To cherish the person I am, and to display it fearlessly. I don't need a secret blog where I can talk about things I used to share with no one, because now I am constantly surrounded by people that share my passions and interests. Books, art, clothes, music. Some of these things, even, I have stopped loving quite so passionately, just because, as I have realized that they do not make me unique anymore, they are not a part of my personality. I can simply enjoy them, without the burning desire to have this thing identify me.
Except for books. The books are still a part of what constitutes: Me.
However, I have not stopped longing for a spot of the internet that doesn't quite work like social media. When people blog, most of the time, they don't know who sees it, and therefore, care about the result in a wholly different way. They care because it's something they made, it is them, in a sense.
Although I did try to accumulate new readers, changing the content was not the way that was going to happen. Could I say the same about social media now? I'm on so many platforms that have strict codes of conduct with an even stricter police (consisting of a wide range of people who populate diversely my love-hate spectre) to enforce it. For example, can you imagine having me write this down on Instagram? For one, as we say in Chile "me muero de paja" writing this all down on a teeny cellphone screen. (As you might have deduced, "me muero de paja" can be roughly translated to "the lazyness* would kill me"). In spite of the fact that I might give more or less fucks regarding people's opinion, the undeniable Truth is this: I would not feel comfortable.
*I tried to find the most appropriate word to translate "paja" into, so I used a thesaurus, and discovered that lazyness has this marvelous synonym:
Now had YOU ever heard of that word?
I miss this lack of creative restraint. I miss being able to talk about mental illness without eliciting annoying sympathy, or about love without feeling gooey. I miss sharing pictures without the least preoccupation on whether it's a "another cliché picture of the sunset" or actually pretty, joking without wondering whether my thousand or so followers will get it, or what about the politics of the situation at hand. This is what I miss, and you know what?
Fuck it. I don't care if blogging is dying, or dead as hell, I will turn this baby into a White Walker, but it will be a fun one that enjoys dancing in her room alone at midnight to Abba whilst drinking chocolate milk. Occasionally, it will also be a White Walker that kills, but not people, just myself. I can get gloomy every so often, especially during the winter, you know.
The conclusion of this is: To hell with it all! I am back, dear blog. I will focus on writing, because that is what I love, that is what I am particularly good at, and that is what I can do freely here and nowhere else. I will probably never be famous, nobody is going to read this shit, but at 23.3 years old I really don't care what this thing is FOR. Generally, yes, I am a utilitarian, but not now.
See, blogging turned me into a Kantian! Blogging is an ends in itself.