After all these years of studying the field, what would you say is the thing we have been doing wrong [...]?

"I've spent pretty much all my years as a scholar studying two kinds of people: stupid people and bad people. What can I say? Results are far from encouraging. In a world of stupid people, everyone would hurt everyone and everyone would whine about it. Then again, in a world of sociopaths, everyone would hurt everyone, and no one would care at all. But most important, if I had to choose something to stick in the minds of everyone out there, is that a world made up of scholars would get nowhere. We're good as we are, avoiding stupid people, avoiding sociopaths, and trying to go on [...]"

- Cellar Heights, en conferencia.

Then again, podría haber un mundo en que todos fueran Mèlanie Laurent.

Ese otro momento incómodo

Cuando con palabras técnicas, te dicen la misma hueá de siempre:

"All You Need Is Love"

Y estás a punto de rebatirles, y no. Tienen razón.
Después, camino a casa, te acuerdas que eso sí lo sabías y el problema siempre fue cómo conseguirlo, y en algún lugar te confundiste y ése es el problema, baby, ése es y siempre fue.

El mensaje cultural del día de hoy es sobre los colores. Son tres: Amarillo, Azul, y Rojo.

Uno los mezcla y logra todos los demás. Así mismo el mundo, según los místicos, se derivaría de la reunión de los elementos básicos que la componen.

Aquí debiese haber una leyenda súper catchy que hilvanase mi post a la reflexión mamona sobre los colores. Pero HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, she's full perfect

Ese momento incómodo...

En el que te metes a tu propio blog y encuentras que las cosas que escribes a la rápida y movido por una idea instantánea están en sincronía con las cosas que dejaste escritas y preprogramadas hace dos semanas, pensando en cualquier otra cosa, y que más encima son una cita.

Damn.

"creíste que bastaba con ser perfecta para ser dichosa; yo creí que para ser dichoso, bastaba con no ser culpable"

Margarita, de veras espero que te equivoques con esta

Hey You

Si aún me lees por ahí, bajo el amparo del anonimato y el silencio como siempre fue,
La hora morada en Valparaíso volvió a ser lo que era antes, antes de todo, con todo el vacío y la incertidumbre y la nohora.

La única esperanza que queda es que el proceso de involución continúe y llege de vuelta a los 17, en este cuerpo de 22, y me dedique a rock & set the controls for the heart of the sun.

Todos debiesen leerlo.

              "Usually, the matter of the abherrant being an over-the-average individual in his cognitive resources, is an underlooked one. Usually it's dispatched as the "genius is a step away from madness" problem. Well it's not. The sociopath is an intelligent person. It's not that he miscarries his or her intelligence away from "the good path" and into the hell of madness; What I'm implying here is that abherrance is not a disease of the intellect, as many pretend, but rather the intellect proposing an alternative to a disorder of the mood or anima. A normal individual would rather fall into a depressed state, whatever the causes are, as a subconscious process, and would not notice it until he or she is deep sunken in it. An over-the-average individual, on the other hand, as he starts from a higher basal state, is going to have both more time and resources to become aware of the process he or she is developing. And here is where the true sociopath starts. While normal individuals' minds would propose whether an active rescue procedure or a less efective defense mechansim, the mind of an abherrant has failed to prohibite a third solution: externalisation. It just takes the process of self destruction that is inherent to depression and imposes it upon its surroundings. Soon it will catch up that the most effective victims are other human beings.

              This is different from earlier theories, proposing an underdevelopement of moral ties as the origin for the sociopath. While I do not deny that process, that is not a sociopath. That is a "sociochild", an underdeveloped. It's like diagnosing someone who has lived his whole life in the vast Mongolian plains, raising horses, with mental retardation because he can't read  or manage to use a cellphone. The sociopath, the true sociopath, has made a choice. This is important both from an obvious legal relevance, but also from a therapeutic approach. The question of whether this failure of cognoscent individual in bridling this aforementioned externalisation comes from an impairment in judgement, and is thus an effect of depression itself, as opposed to a different hierarchy of preferences, where the chance to save the self is more relevant than the transgression to learned moral content, is yet to be answered, and is what I will try to engage in the next pages"

- "The Sociopath", Cellar Heights

Decidí suavizar todas las citas de Heights con fotos lindas para que no se olvide que la vida no es pura Sociopatía.

Algo...

...me gusta mucho en esta foto. Más allá de que ella es espacialmente perfecta y los trazos azules le quedan  desconcertantemente correctos (esa es la palabra... por eso lo desconcertante). 

Hay algo más, algo que está desplazado aquí.

Algo que está mal y bien al mismo tiempo. No sé.

"la de las jovencitas es siempre una historia interior; su vida es un poema antes de llegar a ser un drama"

Marguerite Yourcenar. Alexis o el tratado del inútil combate.

Créditos imagen: http://hernamewasbilliejean.tumblr.com/post/1212392940

El Aberrante

"

He huido de las ataduras de la costumbre, hechas de ternura ficticia, de engaño sensual y de hábito perezoso. Creo que sólo hubiera podido amar a un ser perfecto y soy demasiado mediocre para merecer que me aceptara, incluso si lo encuentro algún día. Y esto no es todo, amiga mía: nuestra alma, nuestro espíritu y nuestro cuerpo tienen exigencias generalmente contradictorias; creo difícil unir satisfacciones tan diversas sin envilecer a unas y sin desanimar a otras, así que he disociado el amor.

Yourcenar propone en un párrafo lo que yo he, con mucho más torpeza que ella, tratado de balbucear en un opus. Precisamente aquí están todos los elementos que configuran al aberrante, al perverso: la denostación de la costumbre como un elemento inferior, la aspiración ideal que justifica la denigración a la que se somete todo aquello que no lo alcanza, y que aún más hace necesaria esa contraposición; la autoflagelación como espejo, que absuelve. Finalmente, las contradicciones que le permiten argumentar cualquier punto de vista, la razón de la paradoja; y el elemento del "encuentro", o posibilidad de duda, como lo he llamado yo, esa puerta abierta que queda al final por la que pretenden ver la luz si llegase a necesitarse."

- Cellar Heights, analizando el "Alexis" de Marguerite Yourcenar

Picture Unrelated but nice.

Beauty Love and Lust

               Jaime y Trinidad iban contándonos de la vez aquella que a Jaime le dio neuritis del vestibular y andaba con vértigo, y no podía moverse para nada así que tenía que quedarse apoltronado en el sillón mientras ella le leía un libro.
              Yo me pregunté si alguna vez tendría algo así. Veníamos de vuelta de la casa de los padres de Jaime a orillas del mar. Allá me preguntaba si alguna vez tendré algo así; pero esa pregunta es indisoluble de la otra: ¿alguna vez tendré con quién tener algo así? Todo parece un poco forzoso, porque en plena sinceridad, SÍ me he enamorado y SÍ me han amado y SÍ he tenido proyectos.
              Pero parecen incapaces de durar. Quizá - a veces me intriga - es un rasgo de mi personalidad. Don't know. Lo que sí sé es que me acordé de este poema (el próximo (quiénsabecuándo en verdad) post, la traduzco, ahora me da flojera. Rifaré un premio al que adivine al autor):



Beauty Love and Lust

O please don’t get me wrong

is not the field of love

where does my search belong,

                                       Nor do i look for lust

                                   that folly four – leaf’d clove

                               which once found, never lasts;

What i want confused can

be with those fit dressings

beauty imposes to man

                                       But soon the sham is caught:

                                   shrivell’d by time’s pressings,

                               that clothing comes to nought

 

No, love’s truly a fake, and certainly lust

though may at some point seem indeed as a must

vanishes in the sea of unforgetful,

relentless, and passion-diminishing time;

beauty as is proudly announced by its soundly chime

starts to decay into an agony as dreadful

as long it takes to finally turn its poor prey

to an unimportant character to the play

Though this new individual may be made a fool

reminiscent as he is, by the old tools

even older love has at its disposal

(For no one is as naked, clueless and lost

than someone unladen of fairness last frost)

And may be tempted by dirty proposal

dirty lust has to offer and be no more free,

It’s self evident that this man is not me

O no, they transit a mostly different field

and go unheralded, the cravings I yield;

for I do prefer what mediators needs not

and truly sustains them both, lust and beauty;

from which love’s not but a minor deputy,

to lovers rage, one of the many in the lot.

Perfection of the Bodies, that’s what I need

To no less – and there can’t be more – may I plead

For its self-contained sweet exact symmetry

holds and keeps its own language and poetry.

Not defined by the will of a few many

like sad beauty is, looks down on lower lust

which often strikes the bar, to be fully cast,

of an approving companion. If any,

it holds alliance solely to Nature

from which it truly excels and She takes venture.

Muscular symphonies whose silence is speech

Sovereign over man’s works that thee can’t reach

You’re not buried or born, but live in full now

thus unlike mortal love, slave to the hour

pay no heed to time’s call, bitter and sour

nor have someone to report ‘bout when or how

because you exist on yourself, on yourself fill’d

uncapturable by eye hunterly skill’d

undisputedly at first try thee get to claim

the sorry gaze that upon you sets its aim

captive the soul on your utter perfection.

Love can be in spite of all its endearment

hurdled by body and its mobile garment;

You, unendowed with the need for affection

to the rhythm of your mean adjust your poise

and to own’s health drink your cup of rejoice

 

Arm, lovely lathed thigh

expressive charming hand

hair billowing out high,

                                       All a secret tongue speak

                                   circumscribing thought-lands

                               that upon my mind leak

that the clockwork divine

mechanic of movement,

subtle poem of the line

                                       is but an impression

                                   of that very moment

                               totalness’ expression

intersects with our plane of life

and with the sharpness of a knife

all this truth struck me;

all eternity can be bound

in an instant so short and sound

when perfection can be,

for this harmony of forces needs no mirror

and its all-sufficience can’t be any clearer

than its simple unobservance of time’s will;

it comes out from nowhere

                that being its grand power

and undisturbed by feel, writes with space’s quill

its one-lined poem. When its magic is done,

returns to eternity it came from, and is gone.

Fuentes para las fotografías:
Beauty
Love
Lust
Casa de Jaime: Trinidad.