Thank God For Family Therapists.

There’s an expected set of feelings every son should hold to his father, should they be affection, love, gratitude for the upbringing, you name it, there are just some things that are supposed to exist in every father and son relationship or so it’s been said. There’s a common thought that being the father the one who, quite literally, gives life to his son, it should only be natural for the son to “pay” for such a gift by showing the mentioned feelings and this in fact happens to some extent. When comparing Paul Auster’s “The Invention of Solitude” and Franz Kafka’s “Letter to His Father” we notice that the things on which they match are the ones coming from said expected relationship, and so, it would be redundant and almost boring to talk about such similitude which would also surface if we compared any father-son relationship. What primarily defines the way the texts talk about parenthood and what it means both to the author and the readers comes from the difference they hold between each other. With this in mind, the coming text shall focus on the differences rather than on the similarities between the works.Now, as we go through the novel and the letter, we come to a very peculiar, yet clear idea. When we read one against the other, we see that even though both are in fact talking about the same topic: fatherhood, through Auster’s “Invention Of Solitude” and through Kafka’s “Letter to his father”, it’s clear how each one writes about his father in a very different way. Auster writes to maintain his father alive, through the use of memory, while Kafka writes to finally relief himself from his memories concerning his father, and thus be able to bridge the growing gap between them. This is the main difference between the texts; a difference deriving from intentionality.We can see this difference more clearly if we take some exceprts from the texts themselves. Auster clearly states the intention of his work. “When I step into this silence, it will mean that my father has vanished forever” (Auster, 69) which literally means “I write to keep him alive”, I shall not keep silent, I cannot stop writing. Only when he’s ready to let him go he’ll be able to finish his writing. On the other hand, we have Kafka which in the first part of his letter mentions: “If I could get you to acknowledge this (None of them being guilty of their present state), then what would be possible is, (...) a kind of peace; no cessation, but still, a diminution of your unceasing reproaches”. Again, a clear statement of his intention. Both of the texts have a clear purpose, nevertheless, let’s go deeper.
The first part of each text defines how the author reacts toward his father, be it dead or alive. When it comes to Auster, the text starts with the death of his father, going further into how such a man came to be who he was and how he was involved in Auster’s life, he talks about his ancestors, about his father’s early life and finally his experience with him as a child. On the other hand, Kafka’s text starts with a series of apologies, for lack of a better term, in which he talks to his father and tells him how it wasn’t his fault (Making explicit reference to the way he grew up) and how the letter is only meant to mitigate the terrible inner quarrels Kafka had had with him. Kafka’s intentions to show his father what he thinks, yet trying to maintain the text at a respectful, even careful tone can be seen when he states “I too believe that you are entirely blameless in the matter of our estrangement. But I am equally entirely blameless”. In a nutshell, while Auster’s text tries to bring back to life the memories which try to reanimate the way in which his father appeared in his life, Kafka’s text remembers different passages which serve to show his father how is it that he appeared in his life and which shall let him, on the long run, take out some of the pain from said memories.Deriving also from the previous argument, there’s a clear differentiation of the text’s intention shown just by the mere fact of looking at the addressee of the texts. Auster writes for his own sake, for himself. He writes in order to understand how his life changes with the death of his father; he writes to dig on his own mind for the most important facts about fatherhood, both his and his father’s. There’s a very nice example in Auster’s text which shows how the different aspects of parenthood collide. “Yesterday one of the neighbour children came here to play with Daniel. A girl of about three and a half who has recently learned that big people were once children, too, and that even her own mother and father have parents. At one point she picked up the telephone and launched into a pretend conversation, then turned to me and said ‘Paul, it’s you father. He wants to talk to you.’ It was gruesome” (Auster, 13).
The fact that Auster’s own parenthood, he taking care of his own child, collides with his memories of his father is the turning point in which we understand Auster simultaneously as a father and a son. If we look on the other hand, at the addressee of Kafka’s text, it’s easily shown that it is his father; after all, it is a letter. The fact that Kafka’s text is a letter to his father, shows how he’s not digging in his mind specifically for himself, but rather for his father. We must note that in the process of digging for his father he ends up digging for himself, even if the main objective is to talk or convey a message to his father through the letter. The search for memories takes a turn as the recipient of such memories is not Kafka himself, but rather his father, who’s got a different view on life, as we can infer by the way the letter is written, and by the countless description that we can read throughout the letter. Now that we’ve talked about the texts themselves and how each topic is shown through them, we can go ahead and turn to the authors. The impact of the text on each of the authors is vital in understanding how they differ. Kafka’s letter goes as far as to give evidence to his father of how he feels and of how he felt during his upbringing, but Auster’s text has a broader impact, as the fact that he’s talking about his father not only gives him ground to talk about him but also to talk about fatherhood as a whole, including his own, the way he found it in other personages, and the way he expected it to be from his father (Although the latter one can be seen by glimpses in Kafka’s letter).Auster’s text is much more complex in this sense and therefore we can see the different lenses through which he looks at the topic of fathers. First, about his fatherhood being the son, and how his father was so estrange that he later developed fatherly feelings towards other persons. “Many years later, at a time of great personal distress, he realized that what drew him continually to these meetings with S. was that they allowed him to experience for the first time, what it felt like to have a father.” S’s his friend in Paris, who he identifies as a fatherly figure. Mallarme’s son is another figure used to show parenthood regarding him as a father, how he sees his son, and further more, there are certain episodes in “The Book of Memory”, which clearly show him as a father. “Merely to have contemplated the possibility of the boy’s death, to have had the though of death thrown in his own face at the doctors office, was enough for him to treat the boy’s recovery as a sort of resurrection”. This quote shows Auster as a father, and as a caring one. On the whole, Auster’s and Kafka’s text have different scopes of fatherhood; Auster talks about it as a whole, starting from his father’s and growing into his, but Kafka stays in his father’s fatherhood, not going further than that.After the previous development, the most rational and simple conclusion would be to restate the fact that they are different and briefly summarize the aspects in which they differ. This is, after all, a comparative essay. However, it is not what I should do, as it’s more than clear than these texts are different and that the intentionality in these texts is what sets them apart, how each of the arguments exposed show the way in which each of the authors wanted to approach the element of fatherhood in their lives and there should be more to this than a simple restatement. So in the end, intentionality gives the texts their characteristic tone and themes, however, it’s mediocre to stay in such a shallow position having so much depth to explore.The first thing the previous conclusion sends us to is how the way in which the texts differ show us an example of the way in which one can cope with a problem through memory, being this extremely common. And why through memory? Because it is the main tool the authors use to talk about their fathers. Neither of the authors talk from the present about their fathers, and when they do (Auster primarily), it’s a brief showing of the way they’ve come to relate to them because of past events but not giving a real insight of it (Auster does talk about the events after his father’s death, yet he never talks how this influences his conception of fatherhood. He only shows how it was the trigger for his experiment). Authors mostly talk from their remembrances, from their memories. Auster having the intention of reviving his father, or rather keeping alive what’s left of him, and Kafka trying to show his father how he wronged him (Even if he’s too afraid, still, to say his father did wrong him in a proper way) show us the way in which memory can be used for different purposes, as it is a vault of innumerable scenes which gives us a way to analyse our relationship to someone or something, and how this relationship might have had an influence on us or on our then to-be future.Now, with this we can see how memory lets us give a wider scope to the problem we have if we take into account past experiences, so to say “We learn from our mistakes”, mistakes being engraved on our memory, memory letting us see a problem from different perspective than just the “now and here”. As Auster eloquently puts it: “Memory: The space in which a thing happens for the second time” (Auster, 87)Finally, we can see yet another nice piece of advice coming from the texts: Especially in the cases of Auster and Kafka, in which their parents were so distant and so hard to reach, writing can be especially useful as it’s a way in which they can state their position and “talk” to them or “reach” them, at least in a metaphorical sense. They can get to them and tell them what they want to, even if it is only within their own memory, even if one of the fathers was dead or the other never actually got to read the letter, it was a successful mission for the authors, they both succeeded at coming to terms with their fathers, at least in their minds. Memory by itself is not only what the texts use as a tool, but the fact that they are texts, that they are written word has a value all on its own. Written word lets someone organize thoughts and by reading them it’s even easier to understand them. Coping with a problem is shown to be much easier when one writes about it, hence the fact that both Kafka’s and Auster’s texts derive from problems: a death and a life-long familiar quarrel. Furthermore, not only the texts sprout from problems, but they seek a solution for them. We can even go ahead and say that even if we’ve previously shown that the texts are different regarding the intentionality, that the intentions are different, the intentions by themselves can be categorized in a same group: solutions. If there’s one similarity worth mentioning between the texts is that both of them seek solution to a problem, whichever this might be. The texts greet us with writing as a tool, enhanced by memory, to cope and try to resolve a problem; sliding through the comparison, and going into the real deal in the texts, what they imprint in the readers, this is one of the most important parts of the texts, the catharsis both Authors undergo within them.

Auster, P. (2010). The Invention Of Solitude. Faber and Faber, London. [Kindle version]. Retrieved from Amazon.com 

Pumpkins for Ventilation

A cut up. It is nice, I shall do it again. I used Helplessness Blues by Fleet Foxes and the instructions on How To Carve a Pumpkin. Click on it for a bigger version!

Study.

Study? No. What for? Is it really worth it? Will I actually use anything of what's taught to me? No. No. Most definitely not. I'd much rather run and jump, crushing dry leafs under me feet. I'd much rather fall, scratching my knees, yet knowing it is a little price to pay, for going out to the sun and wind. Ridiculous to say, that what I learn inside four walls shall be more useful, important or strong than what I learn through laughter, sweat, tears and knee scratches to and fro. I shall never study other than the subtle pleasures of life, and who knows, maybe one day, after I've lived through the fields and falls, I shall enter and see the misspellings of what was wrote.

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PD: I actually love to study, and more than that, learning is my utmost passion, I did however, felt like writing this in quite the opposite feeling. And to be honest, I didn't like how this writing turned out. I posted it out of sheer commitment to what I once said of posting every little piece of text I wrote using OneWord, yet I don't like it, not a bit. I guess disgust for one's own work is natural sometimes. I don't know if it's the wording or just the theme itself, it might even be the mood, I just know I do not, and will not, like it.

Regarding Comparative Essays...

A comparative essay: “papers in which you compare and contrast two things: two texts, two theories, two historical figures, two scientific processes, and so on.” (Walk) And so, a comparative essay seeks to show the similarities and differences between two or more things. That or it can also seek to show how one thing looks through the lens of another, being this called lens comparison.

My essay comparing Kafka’s Letter to his father and Auster’s The Invention of Solitude shall most probably be an A-to-B essay, trying to show the similarities and differences of both of the texts in a parallel way.

I shall establish a thesis which shall “Convey the gist of my argument” (Walk) and show in which way I’m going to compare the texts, with this I should be able to contrast each of the texts in a given frame of reference.

Schedule:

November 20 – Read Kafka’s Letter to his Father.

November 25 – Outline

November 28 – First Draft.

Hearts.

Hearts poured over the open umbrellas, with each beat, each pump. A rain of hearts over the city. Blood covered the streets; blood pumped by hearts. Hearts coming down from the clouds. Clouds with hues which ranged from piquant crimson to candied light purple, from salty blue to sour red, from sweet yellow to bitter gray; hues which swirled around the sky, in a dace accompanied by the constant pitter-patter of the hearts; raining hearts coming down from the luring colors of the sky.

"Hello Amnesia! Welcome home!"

I watched Memento. A fantastic film indeed. I shall now explore how it treats the subject of memory, the way it's shown throughout the movie. First of all, the first thing we should take into account is how immediate memory works, also called working memory, this being the memory we have that lets us use and manipulate immediate information. Memento messes with this immediate memory. Theoretically, we are usually able to remember 4-6 events in our immediate data base, and so, we are only able to manipulate this limited number of memories if are to stay paying attention to a different event, in this case, the movie. As the film goes by, Memento shows us several scenes, all in a non-continuous order, and so, it is imperative to remember all of them to make sense of the movie as a whole. We can't, this is the catch in the movie. We cannot remember all of the scenes if we are to watch the movie without standing up and thinking about it calmly. This produces a very interesting effect in the audience: they won't be able to remember all of it and thus, feel an Amnesia-like sensation crumbling their minds, just like the main character in the movie. This interesting technique is the one that gives the real charm to the movie, as without it, it might be considered a pretty common, yet great, crime story. Memory plays a key role, both in the presentation of the story-line as well as in the reception of it by the audience. Hello Amnesia!

Half Sleep, Half Dead.

The Average Bureaucrat by Salvador Dali, this is the work of art I've chosen to talk about the father figure. To give a brief history about it, this work was done by Dali when his father denounced his actions and took away all of his inheritance. Dali had named a work of his "Sometimes, I spit for fun on my mother's portrait" and that was the borderline for his dad: he was rejected, spelled from his house in Spain and, as said before, disinherited. Dali's father was a notary, hence the name Bureaucrat, given to him in the painting.

The painting shows a half sleep, half dead figure who's doing nothing but staring at his own chest. He's got no ears, showing his incapability to listen to anything or anyone and there's a lovely hermit crab living in a brain-less cave. Brian-less. The characteristic desert in Dali's paintings makes an appearance as well, only giving the painting more of a dejected air than it would've had otherwise.

That's pretty much the picture. Very desolate of course, and very depressing. It shows a hatred and contempt towards someone that I'd rather never have running through  my veins. I really really love the painting, Dali being one of my favorite artists, it's hard to ignore the masterful technique in this portrait. However, I really dislike the meaning, it sends chills down my back. It might be because I really love my father and I can't picture myself on such a situation, but as of now, only the incredible brush strokes save this painting for me.

My Funeral Triumvirate

Ok, I need to write about three different death rituals, give a summary of each and post some nice pictures about them. Lucky for me, I have three options for my remains once I die, and so, I can use this three options and write about them! What are the odds? I can give a brief insight of my death preferences AND do my assignment at the same time! Delicious!

Each option is supposed to be from a different culture, but, alas, those are not as fun. I could say that each my option comes from a different culture, but that'd be overstretching the concept. I will overstretch it. My options are: Space Burial, Mummification and one which does not exist but is portrayed in one of my favorite movies, "Dreams" by Akira Kurosawa. I'll explain each of them briefly and why I like them so much.

The first one is just what it sounds like: You get buried... in space. Yes, it is THAT great. Your remains are stored in a little capsule which is then sent to space using a rocket. There's not a lot of complexity in the burial itself, not taking into account the huge amounts of money it costs and the hassle it is to do the arrangements. Sending 1g of one's ashes to space has varying costs. If I wanted to send my remains for a round trip to the Earth's orbit, it'd be around $1,300 USD, and I say round trip because as it is in earth's orbit it shall re-enter earth after some time. If I wanted to be much cooler and send it to deep space, it'd cost about $12,500 USD, and my remains would go past Pluto and to infinity and beyond. This people can help you arrange it: Celestis

The second one is much more known, yet as unpracticed as the first. Mummification. Egyptians, and several other cultures, were known to have this fantastic burial techniques. In the case of the Egyptian, which are my favorite, this happened because they thought that the body was essential for afterlife. They buried their people with different artifacts, spells, jars with their organs known as canopic jars, etc. It was necessary for the deceased to have of of his belongings, including body and inner parts, to be able to go through the dangerous way of afterlife and into Paradise. Furthermore, Egyptians thought they'd have their heart balanced against a feather by the Gods once they died, and the feather had to be lighter, sign of a pure, clear heart, hence the fact that the only organ not placed into a canopic jar was the heart, which remained in the body. This process also included the complete dehydration of the body, which was immersed in a pile of salt for 70 days, and then carefully covered with linen bandages. I really find this method fantastic as it keeps your beautiful body "intact" for thousands of years. Mummies are one nice way of seeing the results of this method.

Finally, the last, and my favorite, death ritual is the one portrayed in the movie "Dreams" by Akira Kurosawa during the last dream "Village of the Watermills". This ritual is peculiar because even if it's a funeral, people are not mourning, they are celebrating. They celebrate the good end of a well lived life. I really love this funeral, it is full of colors, music, jumping and dancing. This is going to be a must in my funeral. Not one person is dressed in a gloomy black disgusting suit, but they are all dressed in beautiful colorful attires. I find this funeral absolutely gorgeous for that reason: it gives a whole new sense to death, it takes away the sad and horrible part  and makes it as human as it can get. Also, it does not celebrate the going of a person to another life, in which I do not believe, but it celebrates the ending of a life. What's wrong with celebrating endings? It should be a more common practice.

I really like also, about all of the three options, that none of them -have- to be celebrated as a religious ritual, not even mummification, which can be done for sole sake of it's evoking of immortality and such. They are just beautiful, interesting ways of celebrating the end of the longest thing one did: Live. They have don't necessarily have the sad duel most of the other rituals have. I really hope my family gives me one of this once I die. I'd curse them from wherever I am if they dare give me a religious celebration. Even better, I could go further myself and pre-arrange my death rituals. Yes, I shall do that; if you want something done, you have to do it yourself.

"Hello Death, come in. Would you like a cup of tea?"

My views on death  are probably something I've pondered for quite some time. They are not the usual views on death, and I believe that they actually manage give me a sort of tranquility I've seen lacking in some people. First of it all, I don't fear death, I don't loath it or anything of the sort, and so, I don't have any problem with the topic. To be honest, I actually welcome death and I could even say I yearn for it to come one day. This should not be misinterpreted with "I want to die", but I really have no problem with thinking about dying; it is the only adventure you'll ever have. The only real one at the very least. I'll explain this in more depth in a second.

Other than the previous, I'm an atheist. I really don't believe in heaven or hell, and thus, I don't have any problem with my possibilities for an after-life. I don't believe in some kind of being judging me after I die. Some people ask sometimes if the absolute uncertainty of such a belief is not brains-shattering, and no, it is not. This leads to my point about death being the only -real- adventure you'll ever have. It follows the next though chain:

Even if you can think of the most wild situation you'll ever experience in your life, no matter how improbable it might be, fact remains, you can think of it. You can actually create a possible scenario in which it is capable of happening. This cannot happen with death. It is so uncertain, it has such a vast range of possibilities that it's not possible for you to grasp how many things can happen after you die. It just might be nothing, as well as it might be the most incredible thing you've never imagined. (This of course does not take value out of the regular adventures you might have during your life, nor it means that death will definitely be more fun or interesting than life itself, but it's still a fun uncertainty to have)

Now that I've explained how death might be the only real adventure you'll ever have, I can go ahead and say that with this mindset, it is not lunatic to believe that one might long for death as one longs for a trip to Europe or any other special date. Who knows, it might just happen to be as fun.

I really like the way I view death. I feel it takes a weight I'd otherwise have clinging on to my neck. I remember how years ago, when I was more of a child (Not that I'm not one as of now), I used to fear death as the moment in which god was to judge me and to weight the goodness of my actions. Taking into account I really found good some of the things religion found bad, It was dreadful. In a nutshell, one of the things I despised most about religion, specially in my then childish mind, was how it became a terrorist group which roamed my mind with ideas of hunting demons and excruciating pain as one roasted to the eternal flames of hell. 

I'm happy that when I rejected religion I was able to reject the now irrational fear of the unknown, and learned how to welcome mystery as a dear friend into my doorstep. To me, fear of death is just another way of fear of the unknown. As the popular phrase catches on "When death smiles to us all, the only thing we can do, is smile back". So smile.

My contribution to The Great Gatsby Audiobook.

I have to help create an Audiobook for Fitzgerald's The Great Gatby. Here's my share:

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Mickey Mouse, the 20's critter.

I have a new assignment. I'm supposed to create a very short documentary about a character I find interesting and influencing which appeared during the 20's. I think Mickey Mouse accomplishes all of these characteristics, and so, I've picked him to be the topic of my micro-documentary. I've worked with a friend of mine. We've divided the work. Here it is:

Mickey Mouse, the 20's critter.

Suppose.

He thought he'd seen her run past the  big oak, and suddenly, supposed she was behind the thick foliage that enclosed the garden. He ran towards it only to find a very high wall, made of dirty, vine covered bricks which stared at him with reproving eyes. He backed up in panic. He'd remembered. His schizophrenia had been worsening for some years now. He could barely remember who he was or who he was chasing anymore except during the little moments of lucidity in which the abominable reality crawled up his neck. When gone, he couldn't even remember that she, who he'd been chasing over the now flower-less garden was long gone. Gone on behalf of the fear; fear of the faceless illness that afflicted her lover. Illness which had taken his laughter, smile and love, and had returned empty bark full of echoing memories which now had no name or face but just the fake continuous loop of the garden chase the evening before he'd been diagnosed as the madman he now portrayed. He ached for lucidity to vanish; he shed a couple of meaningless tears and wiped them just in time to notice her running past the big oak.

Felix is THE Cat.

To continue with my 1920's/The Great Gatsby spree, I shall now write about a character, quite peculiar I dare say, which in my opinion represents the spirit of the Roaring 20's, and even if he doesn't roar, he meows. Felix The Cat is my character of choice.

Felix was created by Paramount Pictures in 1919, drawn by Otto Messmer and Pat Sullivan, and was the first cartoon character popular enough as to create movies in which he was the staring character. To me, he's a clear reflection of the 1920's. And why? Well, because, in a nutshell, he was intended to be.  Felix portrayed most of the roaring twenties attitudes, steretypes, opinions, etc. He had comic strips and movies on the prohibition, on flappers, on the Russian Civil War and whatnot. He was a clear example of mockery of common practices and he was often portrayed with famous celebrities of the time such as Charlie Chaplin.

Something that never ceases to amaze me and that, I believe, has been partially lost is the animator's ability to evoke feelings and such with only music and actions, no dialogue whatsoever. Just in case it is not obvious, Felix the Cat was a silent cartoon until the end of the 20's, when Mickey Mouse forced vocal chords down his throat due to competition. Felix the Cat as a cartoon was plainly surrealist, I find this extremely fascinating as it would show the people how, in his world, Felix's world, everything was possible. His tail which would turn into exclamation signs or swords or pens complimented the twisted situations in which he endeavored himself and eloquently showed, as said before, the common life and events of the 20's in a fashion which not only contradicted physical laws but also gave good entertainment to American audiences. A cat with serious style I say. He was and still is.

Part A and Part B of Gatsby's Song

As a new assignment, I'm supposed to choose a Jazz song that evokes the 1920's in which Jay Gatsby lived, or that at least, carries a 20's-ish, Gatsby-ish spirit to my head. I've chosen Oleo, by Sonny Rollins. This song does reminds me of the 20's, and does remind me of Jay Gatsby. It is not, however, a song created in the 20's nor of any style found in them. This song was created in the 50's and it is a Bebop composition, something almost opposite to the style found in the 20's Jazz. I find this song reminiscent of the novel because of purely theoretical applications when playing it. And with theory, I mean musical theory.

 

I find this version to be quite appealing, it is played by the Miles Davis Quintet. It clearly accentuates the parts I need to explain how it evokes the novel in my ears. The song is clearly divided into to parts: Part A and Part B. Part A is the first, main verse and it's the only transcribed verse of the song, it is a clearly major part and it gives sort of a flamboyant, blissful party atmosphere to it. Part B on the other side, even if it's still being played in major modes (Mixolydian), it carries a completely different atmosphere; an almost dark, eerie mood, without letting the flamboyancy out. An uneasy feeling creeps your back when Davis plays his trumpet here. 

What makes me think of this song as a nice portrayal of the novel is that while part A is rather happy and almost inevitably paints a smile on your face, Part B creates a whole different impression; a darker mood which even if it still carries some of that previous party, it gives a more serious and dim light to the song. It seems just like the novel to me, two faces of one same thing. While on the outside, Gatsby is a gentleman of extravagant and luxuriant manner, happy and cheerful and on the 'inside', he's a bootlegger, a different kind of gentleman, which can only be imagined as walking out of lurid pub in the middle of the night, which parties, but in a darker and more 'underground' way. The two faces of Gatsby, seem to me, reflected on the two parts of the song; a beautiful analogy of notes and letters.

"And after three days, Jay Gatsby came back from the dead"

This time, I've been assigned with something interesting to say the least, I have to relate Jay Gatsby, one of the main characters from Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby" to a character I find somewhat similar to the charming bootlegger. After some thinking, I think I've come to an answer: Jesus (Refer to the picture if you don't know who this peculiar guy is).

I just can't help it. I don't know if it's the charming face telling you "C'mon! You what I'm saying is true!" even when you know it's not, or his wonderful tunic fluttering with the the autumn winds. He's just as deceiving as Gatsby. And I don't mean it in a wrong way, but I do think that there are two sides of the story. Jay Gatsby, the captivating gentleman with the eye-catching suits, who under this fascinating facade he's a dweller of the underground, a bootlegger, a king of the black market. He's got to faces, yet even when having both his -soul- is not corrupted by his bootlegging persona, he's still a pretty nice fellow.

On the other side, we see Jesus. (I'm not trying to challenge or offend any belief, but I'm going to be frank and outspoken with what I feel). I've never quite trusted the 2000 year old dusty book which lies unopened in the entrance of innumerable houses, yet I've grown in an incisive catholic community and I've had to open it more than a couple of times. Written in its pages I can only see a Jesus which in representation of his father's telling us we're actually all guilty of bad deeds (Sins) and that should we not repent we are going to suffer the eternal flames of hell. He does pray for us while being up in the cross, but in the end we're still under the burden of having to guide our life for the sake of not suffering eternal pain instead of doing it because we actually believe in it. It's a simple disgusting threat. Even newborns should repent as even they are under the so called -original sin-. And having to thank him for every good thing I do is also pretty annoying, I believe one should be auto sufficient and praise oneself for each goal you achieve; the belief that everything good we do is part of godly machinations just takes away the value from what you and others've done.This is, in a very tight nutshell, the bad face of it, at least the bad face I've always seen and which's drove me away of his followers. But the good news is that there's another face! A much more friendly and happy face, which invites me into his creed whenever I see him, who with open arms gives me way to heaven. I believe the image of Jesus is just as deceiving as the image of Gatsby, they are both good looking, enthralling and charming, yet when you see down the drain they might not be as nice.

I wish I was Salvador Dali. (Midnight in Paris)

Oh Dear! Midnight! And a Rhinoceros! It's it very pretty I can assure. Why you ask? Well, I've been thinking about Rhinoceros lately, during midnight if I can add, and let me tell you: It is lovely. It's very lovely, just like melting faces over another face, which is accentuating the meltdown of yet another face, over the horn of a rhinoceros, which was staring directly into the eyes of the first said face just before it started melting. It's as lovely as it is complex; lovely complexity dare I say. And just the other day I stumbled into a most curious man! Gil Pender I believe he was named! He was as a man from the future, just like me! He also resembled a Rhinoceros; he was the fountain of my tumbling thoughts about horned meltdowns, but I digress, back to the Rhinoceros.

---

I was asked to do a first person journal for a character from "Midnight in Paris" from Woody Allen, which is also remarkably incredible. I chose the fascinating Salvador Dali, which Gil encounters in a restaurant.

Celebrate.

The uncorking of the bottle roared through the room. He jumped and danced and jumped again. He screamed and laughed and screamed again. He drank the champagne, swallowed the pill and blithely died. In his cell, he had laughed, screamed and jumped. He'd finally earned his freedom, and with a gulp of champagne he'd celebrate, with blissful tears, the magical evening of the event. Oh death! Delicious death! Ecstatic death! You come to us like a drink of champagne! We relish upon you with rapture and mirth, and finally smile, with shining eyes, as you untie the bowline of our delusive soul and eat it with pleasure, just like we drank yours.

"If you were on the 20's, would you like to dream in America?"

Do the 20’s represent the success or failure of the American Dream? I’d dare say not the success or failure of the American Dream, but rather it standardizes the modern version of it. A dream which relied, in the 20’s, in having a nice apartment down town, a nice vehicle, being able to wear some very classy hat and suit and above all, living in the ever so mighty United States, where freedom reigned. Nowadays, for the average foreigner, this dream has mutated to consists of having a white-fenced two storey house, 3.5 children, a cat and a dog, a minivan or sport vehicle to ride the kids to school, spare money to go drink some beers with your friends around once a week and being able to get dead drunk once a month without having to get worried about what people might say. Pure freedom, no questions asked. Ironically enough, the 20’s American dream, being thought as the utmost of freedom, was redefined during an era of racism, alcohol prohibition and an undercover misogyny which looked down at the flappers, and woman overall. It's funny to think how things change; life's a bitch.

Hover.

Two birds flew around it, deafened by the loud buzz coming from the engines. It was a big zeppelin that hovered over the castle, and down, in the middle of the town plaza, the children gathered and waved at it.  It flew towards the horizon, being welcomed by the setting sun, who casting alluring waves of pink and orange to the clouds, gave way to the magical circus of colors, whose jugglers and trapezists waved, just as the children did, to the big old zeppelin flying atop their brows.

Clipped.

He was driving down the clouds. Damn it was cold! He was running late for work, and he had barely eaten any stars for breakfast. He sped up. Passed a bird on 77th. Kept going. Passed a big big black could on 123rd. He kept going. He then remembered he had forgotten to put on his seat belt. "God and all, but I still forget this thing!" he said as he reached down for the clip. He didn't notice; a big airplane was coming. He crashed directly into it. He died.

"I really hope there's whiskey in heaven"

Ugh. Had to do a video for school. It's about the 20's ban on alcohol. I decided it'd be much more fun to play a rambling dead "drunk" man going against the ban. I'm sorry if any sensitive soul out there is offended, it's not the purpose of the video. Also, I think I was not drunk and I know I suck at playing drunk people.

Couldn't get the YouTube tool to work, so here's the link: I Hope There's Whiskey on Heaven

Sponge.

"I really feel like I should wash myself tonight. And by that I mean get into the shower. This week's been a bitch so it might as well help rather than make it worse. Hmm. Maybe I should jump. Yes? Yes. I guess the window's got a pretty nice view. I wonder if it looks even better from the outside. Yeah. I'll definitely jump. Hmm. But first, the shower, then I'll kill myself."

Avenue.

Walked through the avenue as if no one was there. She was blind to the staggering amount of people trampling over the asphalt, and she could only imagine what the actual noise was. Trapped in her own bubble of colors and imagination, in which no world was real but hers, kept on walking until the bubble popped. And as it shattered, both the avenue and the bubble dissolved, leaving nothing behind but her mind wondering through the streets of New York.

Offer.

"Who's offering $5?" – "The Lady in the back?"
"Anyone else offering more than $5?"
- "$5! ... 3... 2... 1... Sold!"
"Sold to the lady in the back!"
"Congratulations, Lady! You can come pick up your son next Sunday afternoon, we'll have him ready for you."

60 Seconds of Pure Imagination.

I've been on this site, Oneword.com, for some time now, and it's one of the most amazing sites I've been on in the last few months. It's a fun -game- to play. The game rules are as follows: You are given one word. You have 60 seconds to engage into the wildest creative writing you can get. You are limited only by the short time you're given, yet the time constraint makes you think much faster than usual and creates some wonderful expressions of pure imagination. In a nutshell, it gives you the possibility of creating, under just one minute, some awe-inspiring pieces of text.

I'll be posting some of the short writings I create in Oneword. The titles, shall be the single word from which the text sprouted and the posts, shall solely consist of said created text. I think I'll start... now.

Mist
The mist was thick. Vision was clouded by the dense mass of formless vapor; not even the prow could be seen. The captain closed his eyes; prayed to heaven. Nothing happened. It was worthless to keep trying so he closed his eyes once again, pulled the trigger and killed the mist.

Ugh. We're more American?

"Somos más Americanos" or, brutally translated, "We're more American". Song by "Los Tigres del Norte". Listened to it a couple hours ago. I really think I need to say something about it, so I will.

I feel pretty bad about this song. A song ranting about how Mexicans actually should own Colorado, New Mexico, Texas, California and whatnot. Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to say it was a a nice move from the Americans to go ahead ravage and ransack Northern Mexico more than a 150 years ago. It was -rude-. Using more eloquent words: Inhuman, savage, merciless, harsh; it was plainly impolite. I stand by what I say, but I still feel a weird mix of staggering pity and amusement when I listen to it; I get scatterbrained. Simple.

I believe I should actually be supporting the song, they are right after all, but I don't. I just can't. Maybe the way in which they express it doesn't suit me, maybe it's just the fact they are Mexican and maybe I'm racist and I haven't noticed yet. I just can't seem to feel like they have a real purpose singing it. It's not the work songs the slaves chanted while working on the plantations down in Louisiana complaining how the whips of their masters were too hard on their backs. That's a good reason to complain, right? I don't feel as if they have a good reason to, even if they do.

Oh well... Music is ever-developing. In the end I shouldn't and won't have a complete or logical opinion about this song, nor about any.

We start walking...

Oh well... And this Blog begins. I hope it'll be interesting, but that I cannot account for. I shall update regularly, or maybe just when I feel like it, but I usually have a lot to write about, so both options are pretty much the same. Yes. If not interesting, it'll probably be at least time consuming to read. I'm not an experienced blogger. I'm not an experienced writer. I'm just a bird. I don't expect any critique from this, but every bit of it is welcome. I shall introduce myself at a later time. Welcome.