First Week on the Job. Great, Huh?

Ya me había cansado de tener tanto tiempo libre, dado que la tesina y el cele no ocupan gran parte de él. El primer encargo fue algo así como un regalo de cumpleaños: un documento sobre la elaboración y evaluación de pruebas instantáneas de VIH, en el cual había diagramas de flujo, cuadros, terminología, etc. Todo esto sumó un total de 35 cuartillas; el deadline fue hoy en la madrugada. Y sin embargo, lo logré. No soy un gran experto con Word ni he memorizado el teclado, por lo que hoy envié por correo electrónico mi encargo--el lunes debo ir por otro--casi a las 5:30 am. Entre la elaboración de los diagramas de flujo (que son una verdadera lata) y el cotejo final, acabé casi a las 6. Y sin embargo, la madrugada fluyó rapidamente. Mi ritmo de trabajo es lento, pero es, digamos, mi primer día.

Estuve ocupado por más de seis horas seguidas y ni siquiera sentí cuánto tiempo había transcurrido. Al finalizar las correcciones y enviarlas al cliente, tuve una necesidad de irme a dormir como nunca la había tenido. En ese mismo momento me di cuenta de algo fundamental: el sueño no sólo tiene que ser un refugio emocional para un molesto adolescente solitario y depresivo que desearía tener algo mejor en su vida, sino que cubre necesidades primarias. Ya lo había escrito Emilio "una mente embotada no piensa, y por lo tanto, no se deprime", pero el embotamienmto cerebral tampoco es agradable. Auqnue debo reconocer que sí pude olvidar, al menos por un momento, los quizá insignificantes problemas sentimentales que me agobian desde hace veinte meses. El problema es cuando termino de trabajar, y es cuando la depresión vuelve con mayor fuerza. Si sumas depresión al agotamiento físico, el sueño, entonces, adquiere un mayor significado. De ahí que, a partir de esta semana, el nivel de elogio hacia el sueño--y sus diversas formas--se elevará mucho más con el paso del tiempo.

Sólo espero adquirir mayor rapidez dentro de poco.

23rd

The days have gone quite fast so far,
Though I still seem to be the same.
A newer kind of time begins
Yet there is no more ground for me.
It strikes me a different sort of life,
But it's not warm, it's incomplete,
As though no place for love could live
In this restraining atmosphere.
I only stand alone, and see
How everybody else moves on;
Does anyone goes back and forth?
I am afraid I left the world
To freeze. Perhaps I'm just the one
Who was left so. Another person
Could possibly celebrate, though
There is no reason, not by now.
On second thought, my life is not
The same. No more. A few events,
Discoveries that randomly
Break in. I've had no peace enough.
Some circumstances stop my long-
Awaited triumph. The long-gone light
Remains. My mind becomes too blurred
By inner loss. My heart cannot survive--
It does survive, but not quite fine.
As days pass on my being just drifts
Along with them. The coming years
Become a lead-like weight. My face,
Which cannot be surprised, starts
To fade to gray. The best times
Of life have turned to stone. The old,
Yet futile feelings stayed. I have
No place, no-one to go. My choice,
It seems, was never meant to exist.
But I have failed in caring not
For it. I've been left out from all.

Days Before my Birthday...

Do disillusionments have birthday? It seems so, somehow. Let Mr. Murphy say it.

Stonehenge and the Planet of the Apes

Durante mi etapa pre Saint Seiya y Los Simpson, las caricaturas que veía en la tele tenían estructuras y niveles de lectura bastante elementales. Claro que cuando eramos niños realmente eso no nos importaba, sólo queríamos entretenernos. Poco más de una década después los creadores tuvieron ideas más originales. Tal vez suene descabellado, pero quizá Los Simpson y Ren & Stimpy marcaron las tendencias de finales de los noventas. Tal es el caso de Bob Esponja.

Lejos de ser una caricatura simplona, Bob Esponja posee multiples niveles de apreciación. A todas luces, dicho programa se basa en el "humor de lo absurdo"--estoy seguro que la obra de Harold Pinter influyó mucho en los guionistas. Bien podría tomarse como un objeto de estudios posmodernos, pues estas divertidas historias no tienen moraleja alguna. Ninguna está forzada a tener un sentido, como solían tenerlo hace veinte años. También pueden apreciarse numerosas sátiras del mundo occidental. Pero lo que predomina en el ambiente de Bob Esponja es lo absurdo, cosas que sólo podrías imaginarte en un viaje con ácido (citando a Alvaro y a María). Un aspecto bastante sobresaliente es que esta serie toma numerosos préstamos a la cultura pop--fenómeno posmoderno por antonomasia. En un episodio encontré una referencia de Reservoir Dogs, en otro David Bowie prestó su voz como invitado especial, Pantera hizo la música de fondo para otro capítulo, se dieron el lujo de tomar prestada la imágen de Max Schreck en Nosferatu... hasta en la película hacen referencia a Homero (el poeta griego). Las historias--que no pasan de los quince minutos--son muy divertidas, en apariencia simples, pero el equipo de Nickelodeon siempre se encarga de hacer que valgan la pena a través de efectos gráficos y desenlaces chuscos y sin sentido. La parafernalia de cada episodio es digna de una película de Terry Gilliam.

Sin embargo, el episodio más sobresaliente que vi hoy se llamó "Spongehenge" ("Esponja célta" en español). Es un día con muchas ventiscas, y Bob Esponja se encuentra acosado por las medusas porque el viento pasa a través de los poros de su cuerpo y hacen música. Ni siquiera en el trabajo lo dejan en paz. Así que decide salir de la ciudad para causar menos problemas y encontrar una solución. Finalmente decide construir unas enormes estatuas que tienen su apariencia y los mismos poros, para librarse de las medusas. Así logra hacer una réplica exacta de los monolitos de Stonehenge. Cuando termina, la música de fondo cambia completamente y se escuchan flautas celtas, la ropa de Bob Esponja se ve muy gastada y tiene la barba y el cabello muy largos. "Me pregunto cuánto tiempo habrá pasado", dice, "espero no haber tardado demasiado". Cuando regresa a la ciudad todo se encuentra cubierto de arena. Bob se asombra demasiado y cree estar en otro mundo hasta que llega al los restos del Crustáceo Cascarudo, enterrado por la arena. Bob Esponja se colapsa y se lamenta de igual forma en que lo hizo Charlton Heston cuando vio la Estatua de la Libertad destruída casi en su totalidad en el final de El Planeta de los Simios. Quizá podría interpretarse como una alegoría: el ideal norteamericano (la Estatua de la Libertad) ahora es--o ha sido desde siempre--el modelo económico de EUA--el Crustáceo Cascarudo. Pero esto lo dejo al criterio de los demás.

Bob Esponja puede hacer feliz tanto a un niño (las nuevas generaciones son más listas que las anteriores) como a un graduado de letras inglesas (¡YO!).

Pointless Analepsis

In the last two weeks the events from over the last year have been recounted: old dreams in new shapes, disappointments, nostalgia for what never happened, etc. I actually don't know why this phenomenon has come out, but results turn to be quite contradictory. On the one hand, I sometimes feel certain comfort, on the other, I have mostly the sour and persistent impression I'm through and only wait for everything to end. There are flashbacks, nevertheless, which, no matter how petty and shallow they could strike someone, still bring up questions that live on. Once analysed a more detailed synthesis is applied on them. Thence their meanings become more mysterious yet conceal undeniable truths.

Some events just go by due to their closeness and shortness. Yet temporal distance helps see them under a brighter light. I'm not sure whether it is a gift or an evil, but I can perfectly recall what happened to me a long time ago. Last year I was hanging around outside the faculty with some friends. A tedious three-hour class--to which I always arrived late on purpose--had just finished. Though I wasn't in the mood of going home early, therefore I stayed there to kill time. I had suddenly a strange, relentless urge. I knew I had to turn my eyes aside, but I had no idea why. I was facing the building gates, so that my view was way too limited. I immediately turned my gaze and there she was, facing me, walking towards me. I was completely standing inside her visual field. She came to say hi to one of us and left. I can't describe such sensation. I simply turned my eyes left, not knowing who or what could be there. I just know something forced me to. I wasn't before interested in such beliefs, though it is quite likely her glance made me turn my face to see her. I must confess that, some months later, when I encountered her again, the intensity in her eyes was confirmed.

I must confess, however, I'm always miles away (not to say indifferent) and I seldom pay any attention to everyone around me. It happened quite often people, who I ignored they ever existed, came close to me and said they had seen me roaming in the faculty. When someone is looking at me, in whom I am not the least interested, there is no effect on me. What I wrote above, however, was far different. I had previously met this girl. But I noticed she always liked me quite late, and then I lost her trace. We only saw each other again twice at most, quite fleetingly. A few months later we met regularly again; during that time I discovered a considerable chemistry between us. However, that didn't stop her to let me down in the end. And disappointment didn't mean everything was over. She kept looking at me, she kept fancying me. Yet the disillusionment I felt ran deeper than the fact I still drew her attention. Many people think that a single glance conveys more messages than any kind of body language--Now I believe that too. I'm still intrigued by the way in which one single stare of hers moved me to face her--my acquaintances can't say I'm lying, I've never been a paranoid wanker.

I wish I was dumber and more shallow. I wish I was stupid and conceited enough to be happy with the fact that a good-looking girl cast her deep glance to me. Mainly, I wish I could easily forget things like those, as if they had never happened. I wish, rather, such insignificant events sufficed my needs, made me feel better.

Poem of the Week

Hace tiempo unos amigos y yo estábamos jugando a hacer predicciones, utilizando The Complete Works of William Shakespeare como oráculo. En aquél momento me dio una predicción bastante desalentadora, la cual se cumplió algunas semanas después. Hoy decidí repetirlo con The Rattle Bag--sin olvidarnos de Mr. Colin White, quien nos presentó tan maravillosa antología. Abrí una página al azar y esto fue lo que mostró--no muy diferente a la que hizo Mr. William por primera vez:

He Hears the Cry of the Sedge

I wander by the edge
Of this desolate lake
Where wind cries in the sedge:
Until the axle break
That keeps the stars in their round,
And hands hurl in the deep
The banners of East and West,
And the girdle of light is unbound,
Your breast will not lie by the breast
Of your beloved in sleep.

W.B. Yeats

El señor don Yeats me la pone más difícil.

Flashback

I'm not sure what on earth this could be. How I can easily do it strikes me even more mysterious. Maybe someone will instantly trace from somewhere this phrase/reference but, "I remember everything. Yes. I remember everything perfectly." Yet, how should I call it? Recurrence is synonym of frequency, thence I cannot qualify such dream so. I seldom remember what I dream but, sometimes those dreams stand out and survive thanks to their intense content, even if their nature doesn't reflect anything related to my life or circumstances. I've had lately the same dream I had many years ago, though the events were slightly yet fatefully different.

The first time I had such a dream was on December 31st 2004--how come I can remember such things and their accurate dates? Though I still don't know what could've produced such dream. Back then I wasn't worried, I was happier, calmer, I was doing fine in my first days in University. Yet such dreams always come out of the blue. I was in the subway, in one of the most important transfer station--it was not so crowded on that moment, though. Everything looked pretty normal. A few people walked back and forth on the platform. I was just waiting for the train to come until I suddenly heard screams and a lot of swearing. Two guys were rushing towards me as they ran away from another armed guy. As they came closer to me I managed to step aside and they just went by. When they approached the dead-end the train arrived and one of the runaways jumped into the rails. Yet I neither saw any blood or heard anyone's cry. He was obviously mashed into pinkish trails, since the train didn't brake at all. A few moments later the platform was crowded with morbid viewers, cops, and coroners. I managed to see what was left of the poor guy. even if he intentionally jumped.

This year, on August 31st, this dream came back, though in different shape. Once again it took place in another transfer station. Yet this time lots of people stood there. Two men in blue uniforms--who weren't cops--were on the rails working on something. I found it quite strange seeing them operating at that time of the day. As the train approached the driver saw the men a bit late but pulled the brakes. One of the men managed to climb the platform; the other one couldn't make it. The train couldn't stop in time and smashed the poor man's head. I went too frighted when I saw this. The other people had nervous attacks. Para-medics and coroners filled the place. The station was closed. We all were driven out.

I still don't why I dreamed such things. I even know less why such dream came back after four years. I've never thought of throwing myself into the rails.