miercuri, 20 septembrie 2017

life

Think of the hubris you must take to yank a soul out of nonexistence into this meat. And to force a life into this thresher. Yeah, so my daughter, she spared me the sin of being a father. - Rust Cohle


un lup printre oi

Înlăuntrul tău sălășluia o imagine pe care ți-o făcuseși tu despre viață, o încredere, o cerință anume, erai gata de fapte, erai gata să suferi, să te sacrifici - pentru ca apoi, pas cu pas, să-ți dai seama că lumea nu cerea de la tine niciun fel de fapte și sacrificii sau ceva de genul ăsta, că viața nu e un poem eroic cu roluri de eroi și alte lucruri dintr-astea, ci un salon confortabil pentru oamenii cu obiceiuri burgheze, în care individul se declară pe deplin mulțumit dacă mănîncă și bea, dacă își soarbe cafeaua, dacă împletește ciorapi, joacă taroc și ascultă muzică la radio. Iar cine vrea altceva, purtînd în el însuși eroicul și frumosul, admirația pentru marii scriitori sau admirația pentru sfinți, nu-i decît un nebun și un fel de cavaler Don Quijote.
- Hermann Hesse, Lupul de stepă

 

duminică, 3 septembrie 2017

cormac mccarhty, the crossing

To see God everywhere is to see Him nowhere. We go from day to day, one day much like the next, and then on a certain day all unannounced we come upon a man or we see this man who is perhaps already known to us and is a man like all men but who makes a certain gesture of himself that is like the piling of one's goods upon an altar and in this gesture we recognize that which is buried in our hearts and is never truly lost to us nor ever can be and it is this moment, you see. This same moment. It is this which we long for and are afraid to seek and which alone can save us. 


Long voyages often lose themselves. [...] It is difficult even for brothers to travel together on such a voyage. The road has its own reasons and no two travelers will have the same understanding of those reasons. If indeed they come to an understanding of them at all. Listen to the corridos of the country. They will tell you. Then you will see in your own life what is the cost of things. Perhaps it is true that nothing is hidden. Yet many do not wish to see what lies before them in plain sight.



World wanderers. They squatted lightly there in that ring in the wood, at once vigilant and unconstrained. They stood in no proprietary relationship to anything, scarcely even to the space they occupied. Out of their anterior lives they had arrived at the same understanding as their fathers before them. That movement itself is a form of property.  



 

vineri, 18 august 2017

i luv gloria

21 mayo 80
 Dear mujeres de color, companions in writing - I sit here naked in the sun, typewriter against my knee trying to visualize you. Black woman huddles over a desk in the fifth floor of some New York tenement. Sitting on a porch in south Texas, a Chicana fanning away mosquitos and the hot air, trying to arouse the smouldering embers of writing. Indian woman walking to school or work lamenting the lack of time to weave wr riting into your life. Asian American, lesbian, single mother, tugged in all directions by children, lover or ex-husband, and the writing. It is not easy writing this letter. It began as a poem, a long poem. I tried to turn it into an essay but the result was wooden, cold. I have not yet unlearned the esoteric bullshit and pseudo-intellectualizing that school brainwashed into my writing. 
- Gloria Anzaldua, "Speaking in Tongues" in This Bridge Called My Back  

miercuri, 26 iulie 2017

acculturation

Margarita, a girl (Mexican, that is) on her kindergarten (American,  that is) graduation day:
We are all wearing white, white dress, slip, socks, and, Miss Fernandez, is it alright if our hair is black? (Qtd in Vicki Ruiz's From Out of the Shadows)

duminică, 16 iulie 2017

Little lamb, who made thee?

Little lamb, who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee,
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
By the stream and o'ver the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

William Blake, The Lamb (1789)



If I were to believe in a god, I would most certainly not believe in Jesus or the Almighty. Not in the paternal, powerful, threatening and always punishing God, since there are so many things I fail to understand in relation to him: who would be so cruel as to give life to his son and then give him death or who would be so mean as to treat his children differently based on their gender?  
Besides, I can understand or, better yet, accept death but I cannot understand illness. Ok, in his never-ending affection towards us, his children, God decides to punish us for our curiosity. For our thinking outside the box attitude and our creativity.
He decides that we need to die, but why can't we die with dignity? Why must we be so old, so vulnerable and so sick? Why would our father let us suffer so much?!
"The only one I ever liked was Jesus, the baby, the boy. I was always impatient with the crucifixion bit, and I was always mad at his so-called father. God, [...] You know, my grandmother mainly prayed to the Virgin, and, in fact, she told me the Virgin appeared to her in dreams, and once, she said, in a vision. I think she secretly didn't like that God guy either. In fact, if anything, it was as though she emotionally lumped God and the Devil together. Distant, threatening - one threatened if you did, one threatened if you didn't. Both masculine, isolated entities. [...] That God guy has us in a bind. Too isolated, not enough joy. He needs a lover, that's what I think. [...] Yeah, I think God needs some pussy." (Alma Luz Villanueva, The Ultraviolet Sky)
I would much rather prefer the serene, peaceful, mundane Virgin of Guadalupe. La Virgencita. The ordinary, everyday, run-of-the-mill Virgin from Yolanda Lopez's paintings. Because divinity resides in the ordinary. we are god. god is us. god is the ordinary.