Love is the finest silence, the most unbearable

So, the 28 y.o. crisis. In your after-party delusion you think it's only shared by few but have a hint that some people around might as well feel like there's a piece missing in the puzzle, right there, right now, right today, when you look around and see that from the socks to the watch to the air is a consequence of you.

You cry because you cannot rescue love. Does love need to be rescued?

And about love and self, the 'piece' that I liked the most from G. Orozco's exhibit was this kinda circle drawn on a white wall. The idea is that the artist stands against the wall and with a piece of carbon draws the limits of his own self. You cannot go beyond the space that your hands can draw, that's your petit universe. And you have to understand that inside it you are a galaxy of wonders, so don't go to bed feeling lonely again.

Yo te quiero así, después de las horas y sin pretender estar bien. Pero también cuando sonríes, porque el mundo se vuelve bueno. Or when you talk about your plans and deadlines and 'that's it, February is my ultimatum'. Do not need you to stay at 19° 24' N 99° 12' W, just stay close.

Mis manos son mi corazón (son mis manos)

Today I'll go to a Gabriel Orozco's exhibit at Bellas Artes. Who's Gabriel Orozco? The first I knew of him was that in an 'Art Now' book there was this tiny Mexican guy with a very perverse smile among the out-and-about artists in all other pages.

And just to have an idea of what is him about, here are some Wikipedia hits:

A silver Citroën DS was sliced into three pieces lengthwise. The middle section was removed and the two remaining pieces were fastened together, forming an arrow-like car with a width 63.5 cm (25 inches) less than the original. Visitors may sit in the new vehicle and the doors and trunk can be opened though it was not made to drive.

Mis Manos son mi Corazón (1991) is a set of two photographs of the torso of a bare-chested man (possibly Orozco). The first depicts him squeezing his hands around a ball of clay; the second shows the man unfold his hands and the resulting heart-shaped clay form is held in front of his chest.

But actually this post was not about Orozco as I still need to have an opinion, it is about how knocked down I am by being in Mexico. Art here is just everywhere and it changes, and I feel I need two more weeks just to be around and decide where do I wanna go. Art is not snobbish or restricted to people 'who know'. Art is almost natural to my people, that cannot take minimalism and are so self conscious of the aesthetics that put make-up even when picking the newspaper. Art is not a privilege, it is truly democratic because Mexican people love falling in love and we pretty much embrace... everything. Can however discuss that one should not like everything all the time, but at least we have adrenaline running when discovering a new provocation.

Anyway, my biggest shock of the season is a new museum: the 'Popular Arts Museum' that just opened in the most dangerous neighbourhood in the city. Tepito is the kind of place that is not even mentioned in 'Lonely Planet', because you have for granted that people is undererducated, sell fake Louis Vuitton bags and have at least one convicted drug-dealer per family. All of it is true, and the neighbourhood is violent too. But then the Museum...

So, yesterday I talked to Adrian (based in Shanghai, but here for holidays) and after Feliz Navidad, he just said: Don't you find Mexico sooooo beautiful?

I actually do.

Poem to a Rock

'Nobody sits like this rock sits.
You rock, rock.
The rock just sits and is.
You show us how to just sit here, and that's what we need'.

Too good not to share...

From 'I love Huckabees'

Smukt som et stjerneskud

Like the stone on the pond, something did happen to me today.

Rather Huckabees day, you know? Gloomy December 21st , everything going wrong, and when I say Huckabees, I say I was pretty much like Albert at the beginning of the movie:

'What am I doing? What am I doing?
I don't know what I'm doing.
I'm doing the best that I can.
I know that's all I can ask of myself.
But is that good enough? Is my work doing any good?
Is anybody paying attention? Is it hopeless to try and change things?

I'm fucked. Maybe I should quit. Don't quit.
Maybe I should just fucking quit. Don't fucking quit.
I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to fucking do anymore.'

And when I was about to say: Elvis has left the building, M makes for me a paper heart just to see me smile. Who else on Earth might have known...?

Goodnight moon.

Thank you Max.

Miss you Dad. Just don't die again like that.

Come on and let it snow...

Pretty numb about Christmas this year. When trying to understand why the spirit just does not reach me, I found that:

• When things go really wrong in my life, they go wrong around Christmas.
• Currently, working on my agnosticism - I'm equally confused by thinking that God exists than he doesn't.
• Christmas is fun for kids. And I have not rented one this year.
• Last Christmas was close to disastrous.
• Last Christmas I gave you my heart, and the very first day you gave it away (if I hear Wham on the radio again, I swear I'll either get a machine gun... or the record).

But what thrills me about Christmas is the possibility of being physically closer to my 'Line of life': los frijoleros, the girls, the gang, adn, le beau serge, mi primo, pretty mom, lille bro and all those surprising souls that make my heart stay in a safe place. Me hacen falta.

The talented Mr Schippers

I am not certain to which extent life turns into poetry when one's self-destructive inertia pollutes the sunset... but that is just me talking from the dark side, not the passionate one, the 'why did today happen' dirty little place.

There's this scene in 'The Purple Rose of Cairo' where Mia Farrow's husband screams to her: 'Yes, go ahead, leave, you'll see that life is not like the movies... you will be back...'. I beg to differ. Life IS like the movies and for a better example, think about one true moment of happiness or sadness... then substitute yourself by dunno, Fashionable Starlet 1, and play Moby's 'Porcelain' on the background.

If you cannot believe it yet, here are two 'film stills' I'd like to share:

1. Two people are walking on party clothes behind Christiania (the hippie commune) in complete darkness, looking for a bridge that M wanted to show A. The trees are gray, it's rainy, there are few lights inside the wooden houses. Then they find the bridge, in the middle of a canal, and sit facing the neon lights on in West Copenhagen (behind them, the tall chimenees of an industrial complex). They discuss their fears and joys like if they only had that night left.
   
2. A girl ('A') travels to Pilsen (Eastern European location) to meet somebody she's been in love with for five years and hasn't seen in five years. 'A' calls 'Da Guy' from a phoneboot and 'Da Guy' says: 'Take a taxi and meet me at Café Enigma' (the name is not ficticious). The girl sees her life passing by while waiting for him. And orders a sandwich.

This post is however to talk about people that actually touches your life (gives you a couple of film stills) and manage to stay in the background, dwelling quietly until their mission become somehow apparent.

So, the talented Mr Schippers.

'Love at first sight' has been explained by many ways and the ultimate answer was 'discussed' by me and Virginie over mushroom soup. When you fall-in-love-immediately, it is that all your background recognises in that person your set of preferences and expectations, and therefore you're overwhelmed by a very close to perfect match (what? 85%? 75%? should we settle for 40%?) .

But when you empathise with someone in three seconds, and can be sarcastic, and don't see him/her as your-other-half... then your bond to that person can actually last forever.

Don't ask me about love as I am the biggest mess available, but when I met the talented Mr Schippers, I did not want to marry him and have his babies. I wanted to listen. And what I liked the most was that it was my first encounter with disenchanted honesty, naked truth, and in general with a free soul that taught me how to stop lying to myself.

When I was younger I said that I liked to be around 'smart' people (and when I was older, I said: 'I first fall for (f*ck) the mind'). But intelligence can be measured in oh so many ways, that my stuff now is to be around honest people. And honest people usually laugh about themselves, and you, and in general live lighter.

Mr Schippers is one honest soul. And he is smart. And intelligent. Damn, I felt into my own trap. I just need to say he is 'nice'. I won't nice-him. We met and we understood the idea of the other in three seconds, hence we sticked together. I learnt from him that amazing things happen when you observe carefully. I learnt that you can actually steer your boat without being afraid of breaking everything. I understood that you can let the world revolve by itself.

This is not an ode, the only one I know is 'Ode to a Duck' and that is a pretty funky song. But I wanted to acknowledge that if Earth calls, there might be someone listening. Thanks luv.

'Natural Disaster in Teletubbie Land'

Life's so fucking difficult when you're not stupid.

That is how I began talking about philosophy with my philosopher friend (quite a convenient combination) the other night while trying to watch 'Reservoir Dogs'.

Philosophy, in brief, is a world I've been always scared of. Why? Because my life's tactic is never going back, erase and rewind, will think about it tomorrow. But I got to think that sometimes it's good to exhaust all possible explanations and reach a conclusion that might not be apparent (if the bottle of whisky has kids that are called Michael, then they are sheep, therefore all lambs are called Michael if they were born from a bottle of whisky). Cheers for that one, and swear it came out before the whisky bottle was half empty (or half full...).

So, why Teletubbie land? This fear I have of thinking about reality might be sometimes a cover of what lies behind. From the same failed Reservoir Dogs night, I got to know that for each bit of humanity we get, we give up the same bit of liberty. Explaining: We, social beings, are constantly aware of the reactions we cause on others hence some freedom goes away (even by us no being aware of it) as soon as we interact. For some earthlings the weight of the external approval becomes a burden. I thought about this guy called 'Lanz' I knew of in high school, who one night decided to hang himself. His written explanation was: 'Everything around makes me sad'. Everything around, not everything inside.

By living in a country were certainty is the rule, women call the shots, and you practically cannot get fired, began to feel somehow numb. But comfortably numb in the practical sense. I have been an spectator of this Scandinavian reality, a passionate girl who feels like the biggest mismatch that happened to this land since Asterix was here. What was missing? Nothing really. You have to change the focus from yourself sometimes, and enjoy being around.

And yes, we haven't reached Teletubbie Land yet. On Sunday I took my bike and went to see this Fredrik Raddum installation at the SMK. It was called 'Home Sweet Home' and it portrayed a) the perfect Nordic idea of a peaceful life and b) how can shit actually happen. Will try to describe it. Big room ('X-Rummet'), low lights, artificial grass you could step on and enormous cartoon flowers. In the middle, a 3D cartoon house, around 2.5 m tall, with a big cartoon tree smashing it in half. But inside the lights were still on and it looked 'hygge', cozy, as if the big accident never happened. What a wonderful provocation.

In a perfect land, the world can go crazy and nothing moves the self, because people here is used to things actually working at the end. From the adorable chaos I come from, we are used to nothing working, surprises happening and life interfering all the time with our plans ('You wanna make God laugh? Tell him about your plans'). This weekend the streets were 'on fire' due to a demonstration in Nørrebro. Kinda surprising seeing that from the helicopter view 'coz I've walked those streets, but thought that it was ACTUALLY shocking seeing some months ago the pictures of the exact moment when this indie American journalist died while trying to get a pic of the Oaxaca's 'demonstrations'. Not comparing at all, but what I mean to say is that depending on your background, things will touch you on a different way.

And then how easy it is to live life when you know nothing - wisdom and knowledge can cause pain, because you get eager to get more answers. Or you suddenly understand what lies behind - and you don't like it.

Greetz from Teletubbie Land.

The Sound and the 'wikings' and Oh Happy Day

Last Sunday I packed a sandwich and Clint and headed North. When I was about to reach my destination, realised that nobody was gonna catch up with me and decided to go even further, all the way to the last stop. Freaking romantic movie with a train included, but I was more like in a very thoughtful mood. This post is about beauty (again) as I think my whole mind revolves around aestethics - too much and too bad sometimes (it leads my behaviour), but it also makes me live in colours. My life after 'DA BREAK-UP' was gray with hints of red, now I know the fire is back (come on baby light my fire).

So, beautiful moment number one: Kronborg Slot. I was walking to the castle along with all those Chinese tourists, and the beauty of it made me stop. The stone-path was just another stone-path, but thinking about all these people that have been there hit me like a bucket. And I took a picture of it. I had the same feeling in Prague (although I was moody and tired), and in Kyoto and now I began to sound too 'I've been everywhere', but my point was that beauty does not come from just the aesthetical feeling. Nice is good, but what lies behind transforms statics into movement, gives the complete picture an unforgettable flavour.

Think about all those honey-mooners travelling across Europe. Or the lovely Aussies or the Japanese that want to see-it-all in a budget and within two weeks because they live so freaking far away. I have rebelled to be one, although I definitely end up buying a catalogue or a key-chain or taking a picture of the-whole-monument. We, humans, are exposed to an enormous amount of information and just few shots stay. So when I am at a special place, I like to freeze time and take a mind picture (or a real one) and so I get a small tattoo of that moment in my heart. I have 'a tattoo' of the perfect evening I spent with Artboy a year ago, drinking wine and solving life. And a recent one of Christiania at 6 a.m., my hand in the hands of one amazing soul I met. I have a quite painful one of when I got back to Mexico right after the brake-up and saw mom and lille bro and my darling friend. I was home, I was home, I was home... nobody could hurt me there anymore.

Anyway, it was beautiful sitting outside Kronborg and watch the Sound and Sweden and smiling at people. Something broke inside of me - I perhaps began to let go.

Beautiful moment two: I found a gospel concert. A terrible one. But they began singing something about 'in the morning everything will be alright' and as corny as I was born, I felt like crying. I could feel the energy of those women, who very likely have simple and sterilized Danish lives, giving their best and being truly happy to share what they had, or to show off, or who knows what.

So, there's beauty in the world if you dare to stop life for a second. Is like when you are sustained by a mechanical lung at a hospital and somebody suddenly disconnects it - the feeling of being back is so powerful...

Hall of shame

• I like Justin Timberlake and thought about buying his CD.
• I read the 'Da Vinci Code' from cover to cover in two days.
• I must have seen 'Love Actually' about sixteen times.
• I love the pictures I take and do not get tired of looking at them.
• I have felt asleep three times while trying to watch 'Reservoir Dogs'.
• I could not stand Lars Von Trier's 'Elements of Crime' and his Europa trilogy is now part of the decoration.
• I hated 'Citizen Kane' but have always said it's a great movie.
• I tripped on the treadmill and damaged my knee on my first day at SATS, but got up and kept running. Hurted like hell.
• Many of the pretty Danish design stuff I have are really uncomfortable to use.
• Even worst than number two, I discussed the 'Da Vinci Code' with a hot Dutch guy for like an hour in a bar. And just because he was hot.
• I don't like scary movies and have nightmares about them.
• I love getting mails but then I don't write for months.
• Had to memorise the spelling of the following words to refer to them correctly and don't look stupid: Royksöpp, Erykah Badu, Peyroux, Mark Rothko, Guggenheim, Evanescence, oksemørbrad, moelleux, Pollock.
• I like with the same intensity girly movies and Quentin Tarantino.
• I have never seen 'Festen' although I have the DVD.
• I don't really like impressionism and find Renoir, Monet, Manet, and the rest of the gang incredibly dull.
• I bought hats for hard-boiled eggs and was eating a lot of eggs for a while just to use them.
• Now and then I browse on the 'Stylewatch' of people.com just to feel miserable.

There. Now I'm on the clear.

Dancing at the Blue Iguana - and how it related to poetry

I was browsing stuff on TV last night and ran into this 199X movie about a dodgy strip club featuring Darryl Hannah and the Chinese-American girl from 'Gray's Anatomy'. The thing is that the above mentioned Chinese girl kinda falls in love and she is stripping and a tear is running through her chick. And for what I understood of the plot, she also wrote poetry, so there's also this scene where she's reading a poem as dodgy as the movie to another stripper.

My thoughts: I was translating the movie into how the script should look like. Whoever that wrote the small poem the actress is reading, must have had five good minutes of pure inspiration, or perhaps he/she wrote it on the back of a napkin, or perhaps it came from dunno, Walt Whitman, or stupid Eminem lyrics. So, why is it so amazing for some people that other people can do poetry? And what is poetry? I still don't know. Is it to say things in a way they hold a secret meaning? Is it all about beauty? Sometimes many thoughts get together in my mind and have to get out - when they do, they sound like poetry. Like when I wrote this thing about Daniel Lemus and that he reminded me the taste of rain, and melancholy, and my ex got incredibly jealous 'coz he thought it was beautiful AND it wasn't about him.

Need an answer on what is poetry and Google is not helping much today.

Latitude 55° 43', North. Longitude 12° 34', East.

This is all about small stories and people who pass by. I am not sure if being an active contributor to the human drama makes things different, but for some reason life sometimes become relevant. Like this week.

When you are busy making a living the world does not stop unless you hit rock bottom on purpose. I had to stop everything and say assez! for once and for good. Or perhaps just for today or this week or the winter season. I like new beginnings all the time, perhaps because reality becomes heavy and the eternal erase and rewind makes the inertia shake. What a chicken.

And I'm in Denmark now. Two years of 'pure joy'. There are people I like to think of when I think, like Simon. Why is he the first one? Well, maybe 'coz I had lunch with him this week. He said he could trace some Bridget Jones features in me. Fuck it. Too much in the dark side to be Bridget. But the relevance of Simon is that he makes me feel awake whenever we talk - his mind is so amazing that sometimes it's even hard to catch up. Maybe he's the reason why I made a blog. I tend to have an opinion on most of the things (thought that was granted for older, wiser people, Jesper), so why not? Perhaps I will reach my zen. Or the nothingness. Who cares?

So, Simon gave me this thought that he collected at Roskilde Festival: You can dwell in two ways - by being a 'giver' or a 'taker'. You make this choice most of the times, and I lie to myself saying I am shy. Hell not. I am more like intimidated by people and feel compelled to give. It would however help me a bit to be a taker - cannot carry the guilt all the times. Estrés, es cuatro.