What is it? 22:34

If you still read, what is it?

I once told you I would be here, and I don't break my promises.

Long lasting goodbye 9:36

I said I would write again the next Monday. But this goodbye should be written today, because I won't begin my new blog time carrying the past.

These couple of weeks have been really akward and difficult for me in more than one aspects. People I thought was supportive showed me their backs. Even if I had never knew their backs.

So, This is my long lasting -I don't know if everlasting- goodbye. I closed the cycle by mail, now I close at my blog. I waited for two weeks to have an answer to my truly desperate, concerned words, and I didn't have one.

I was an active reader going on a passive one. I don't read that often anymore, and at the beginning I felt so sad and so overwhelmed by the situation. But now I don't feel that anymore. Now I can spend lots of day without thinking about it.

So, perhaps I won't write in English anymore. I don't have anyone to read what I write in English, and all the people that does me the honour of reading me are Mexicans, or at least they speak in Spanish.

So, I shall write in Spanish again. Monday it is.

Anyway, thanks for what is worth.

Vals en La bemol, Op. 69 no.1 "Del Adiós" 21:35

Interpretado por Humberto Soto...

Otra vez Chopin

Maravilloso Chopin 21:30

Algo más de mi trabajo 19:45

Aquí está mi ópera prima como guionista. Se llama La Frontera. Un beso

Esto 23:43

Esto que les dejo no lo escribí yo, es de Julio Cortázar y lo leí en el blog de una amiga. ¡Se siente tan bien publicar algo! Aunque no sea algo de mi autoría...

En el tiempo que ya anuncié regresaré a publicar cosas mías. Mientras les dejaré algunos textos de otros autores.


Tu más profunda piel

Cada memoria enamorada guarda sus magdalenas y la mía -sábelo, allí donde estés- es el perfume del tabaco rubio que me devuelve a tu espigada noche, a la ráfaga de tu más profunda piel. No el tabaco que se aspira, el humo que tapiza las gargantas, sino esa vaga equívoca fragancia que deja la pipa, en los dedos y que en algún momento, en algún gesto inadvertido, asciende con su látigo de delicia para encabritar tu recuerdo, la sombra de tu espalda contra el blanco velamen de las sábanas.

No me mires desde la ausencia con esa gravedad un poco infantil que hacia de tu rostro una máscara de joven faraón nubio. Creo que siempre estuvo entendido que sólo nos daríamos el placer y las fiestas livianas del alcohol y las calles vacías de la medianoche. De ti tengo más que eso, pero en el recuerdo me vuelves desnuda y volcada, nuestro planeta más preciso fue esa cama donde lentas, imperiosas geografías iban naciendo de nuestros viajes, de tanto desembarco amable o resistido de embajadas con cestos de frutas o agazapados flecheros, y cada pozo, cada río, cada colina y cada llano los hallamos en noches extenuantes, entre oscuros parlamentos de aliados o enemigos. ¡Oh viajera de ti misma, máquina de olvido! Y entonces me paso la mano por la cara con un gesto distraído y el perfume del tabaco en mis dedos te trae otra vez para arrancarme a este presente acostumbrado, te proyecta antílope en la pantalla de ese lecho donde vivimos las interminables rutas de un efímero encuentro.
Yo aprendía contigo lenguajes paralelos: el de esa geometría de tu cuerpo que me llenaba la boca y las manos de teoremas temblorosos, el de tu hablar diferente, tu lengua insular que tantas veces me confundía. Con el perfume del tabaco vuelve ahora un recuerdo preciso que lo abarca todo en un instante que es como un vórtice, sé que dijiste " Me da pena, y yo no comprendí porque nada creía que pudiera apenarte en esa maraña de caricias que nos volvía ovillo blanco y negro, lenta danza en que el uno pesaba sobre el otro para luego dejarse invadir por la presión liviana de unos muslos, de unos brazos, rotando blandamente y desligándose hasta otra vez ovillarse y repetir las caída desde lo alto o lo hondo, jinete o potro arquero o gacela, hipogrifos afrontados, delfines en mitad del salto. Entonces aprendí que la pena en tu boca era otro nombre del pudor y la vergüenza, y que no te decidías a mi nueva sed que ya tanto habías saciado, que me rechazabas suplicando con esa manera de esconder los ojos, de apoyar el mentón en la garganta para no dejarme en la boca más que el negro nido de tu pelo.

Dijiste "Me da pena, sabes", y volcada de espaldas me miraste con ojos y senos, con labios que trazaban una flor de lentos pétalos. Tuve que doblarte los brazos, murmurar un último deseo con el correr de las manos por las más dulces colinas, sintiendo como poco a poco cedías y te echabas de lado hasta rendir el sedoso muro de tu espalda donde un menudo omóplato tenía algo de ala de ángel mancillado. Te daba pena, y de esa pena iba a nacer el perfume que ahora me devuelve a tu vergüenza antes de que otro acorde, el último, nos alzara en una misma estremecida réplica. Sé que cerré los ojos, que lamí la sal de tu piel, que descendí volcándote hasta sentir tus riñones como el estrechamiento de la jarra donde se apoyan las manos con el ritmo de la ofrenda; en algún momento llegué a perderme en el pasaje hurtado y prieto que se llegaba al goce de mis labios mientras desde tan allá, desde tu país de arriba y lejos, murmuraba tu pena una última defensa abandonada.

Con el perfume del tabaco rubio en los dedos asciende otra vez el balbuceo, el temblor de ese oscuro encuentro, sé que una boca buscó la oculta boca estremecida, el labio único ciñéndose a su miedo, el ardiente contorno rosa y bronce que te libraba a mi más extremo viaje. Y como ocurre siempre, no sentí en ese delirio lo que ahora me trae el recuerdo desde un vago aroma de tabaco, pero esa musgosa fragancia, esa canela de sombra hizo su camino secreto a partir del olvido necesario e instantáneo, indecible juego de la carne oculta a la conciencia lo que mueve las más densas, implacables máquinas del fuego. No eras sabor ni olor, tu más escondido país se daba como imagen y contacto, y sólo hoy unos dedos casualmente manchados de tabaco me devuelven el instante en que me enderecé sobre ti para lentamente reclamar las llaves de pasaje, forzar el dulce trecho donde tu pena tejía las últimas defensas ahora que con la boca hundida en la almohada sollozabas una súplica de oscura aquiescencia, de derramado pelo. Más tarde comprendiste y no hubo pena, me cediste la ciudad de tu más profunda piel desde tanto horizonte diferente, después de fabulosas máquinas de sitio y parlamentos y batallas. En esta vaga vainilla de tabaco que hoy me mancha los dedos se despierta la noche en que tuviste tu primera, tu última pena. Cierro los ojos y aspiro en el pasado ese perfume de tu carne más secreta, quisiera no abrirlos a este ahora donde leo y fumo y todavía creo estar viviendo.

Dos semanas... 10:06

Dos semanas es suficiente para dolerse por alguien que no se duele por uno. Mi amiga no está desaparecida, simplemente ha decidido -por razones que desconozco- no hablar conmigo. Entonces, como sigo sintiendo la pena de haberla perdido, voy a dejar de escribir por dos semanas a partir de hoy. En pocas palabras, este blog se actualizará el próximo 3 de abril regresaré a mi publicación habitual, es decir, algunos por día...

Gracias a mis lectores por su paciencia.

To my readers 13:05

My dearest,

Thank you for reading me. However, I shall interrupt my participation in this blog for a while. I'm in a period of grief. A good friend of mine dissapear. And as this was the mean I used to communicate to her. I don't want to touch it for some time. I will not erase this blog. I just won't write. You may post your comments if you want to.

Thanks again,

Charbelí

Mensaje a mis lectores 12:40

Gracias por leerme. Sin embargo, he decidido dejar este blog en paz un rato. No voy a borrarlo. Sólo dejaré de escribir en él un tiempo.

Y a ti, 11:18

¿Qué te hace feliz?

Mandeeeeeeee????? 10:12

Jajajaja, para Roberto

I will wait for a week. I will send her mails and reading her blog. If she doesn't answer then I will think she didn't want to answer, or she is far away and she shall contact me whenever she wants to.

I just can't believe she is the kind of people that would do such a thing of leaving without telling. I have the impression she is very honest and she wouldn't do that. If she is mad she would tell me not to talk to her.

I wonder what happened to my friend? Is she sick of me? or is she just doing her stuff? or why doesn't she answer me. I feel like Judi Dench in Notes on a Scandal except for the fact I am not a lesbian and a truly care about her. But I have no way to contact her except by mail and her blog.

So I guess if she is ignoring me for her own will, I'm screwed. And if she is in trouble. I'm screwed too because I don't really know.

The answer 7:31

Yesterday someone post a comment with a question that read like this, "And I keep wondering does it make her happy to be always sad?"

I got mad when I read it. I just couldn't avoid to feel whoever wrote it was arrogant. But now I'm not mad, and I'll just answer that: I'm not happy in my sadness. Do you think I'm happy? do you find joy in my countenance?

If you knew me so well, I guess you wouldn't be asking that.

So, no. I'm not happy in my sadness.

I won't tell you why I'm sad. I don't think you ought to know.

Presentimiento 20:51

Creo que lo que tengo es un mal presentimiento. No sé por qué. Pero lo tengo. No sé si me estoy viendo muy acosadora. Odio cuando las cosas se me salen de control. La gente nunca cambia, así que supongo que yo tampoco cambiaré nunca.

¿Ya sabes? Me siento como con un nudo en el estómago. Es un presentimiento. No sé de qué. Pero es un presentimiento. Nunca un presentimiento me había hecho tanto daño.

Además, generalmente no confío en mis presentimientos porque son erróneos. Generalmente lo que hago es ignorarlos. Pero ahora es muy fuerte.

Otra vez esa sensación...

Check this out 18:01

What they say about me 13:10

My group's tutor says I'm way too analytic. He says I analyze everything, He says I analyze attitudes, and that I get so intense because I'm perceptive and sometimes I think what is not. That is the euphemysm (I don't know if this word exists in Eniglish) for saying I'm paranoid android.

Such a bad thing. Maybe he's right. But I like to analyze people.

Mentira (Lie) 12:40

This is the audio of the song I wrote down earlier. The images are from "The Clone". The burnette guy that has a really nice nose. I love him. (Giggle)

Sweet scape 12:31

This song tells what I'd like to do...

Mi historia a través del cigarro 11:50

Tengo ganas de escribir en español. No sé qué. Sólo escribir en mi idioma precioso y rico. Jajajaja, estoy viendo una página de Pfizer y lo primero que veo en ella es Programa "libre de cigarro"... Realmente no quiero librarme del cigarro. Me gusta fumar. Me gusta. No sé si me gusta el sabor... pero después lo pienso y algo me gusta del sabor. Me gusta tener en la mano el cigarro. Me gusta verlo consumirse. Me gusta pensar en mi abuelo tomando el cigarro con tranquilidad, golpeándolo contra su cenicero de metal y fumándolo con tranquilidad, para después soltar una bocanada de humo que le cubre todo el rostro mientras comienza a hablar.

También recuerdo a mi mamá. La recuerdo fumándose un Salem -que mucha gente dice, es una marca para señoras- y oliendo a menta y tabaco la recuerdo abrazándome y jugando conmigo.

¿Cuántos años tendría cuando leímos juntas Canek? Tal vez siete. ¿Cuántos años hace? Tal vez 12.

Recuerdo a mi hermano, regordete y muy lindo, mirarnos con sus grandes ojos castaños con expresión de extrañeza, y después reírse con su sonrisa tierna, de niño.

Recuerdo mi infancia como una época de oro. No puedo decir que no tuve. Porque la tuve y era muy feliz. La recuerdo rodeada de tíos, escuchando conversaciones de adultos porque mi mamá me dejaba escucharlas, a pesar de la censura de la familia. Recuerdo el humo de los cigarros que circulaba en la intelectualidad de las conversaciones, que todos soltaban en una carcajada.

Después recuerdo al hombre que amaba. Lo recuerdo fumando sus Camel. Ahora me molesta la marca. Pero en ese entonces la cajetilla amarilla me recordaba su piel. Tal vez también su carácter.

Me acuerdo también de la preparatoria. Me recuerdo fumando en las escaleras de la biblioteca, porque en otro lado no me dejaban fumar.

Ahora la universidad se mide en Marlboro. En Blue. Ahora el tiempo se mide en bocanadas de humo. En la bocanada perfecta. Mi tiempo se mide en cigarrillos. Otra de mis treguas con el tiempo.

Mentira (Lie) 11:45

I’m still trying to figure out why I cried so much. I’m listening to a song called “Mentira” (Lie). I will write down the lyrics and will translate it for J.

I don’t know what to think of myself right now. My eyes are swollen.

Mentira

Que me digas que ahora el amor sabe mal
Que me digas que el sol va a dejar de alumbrar
Es querer renunciar a los sueños de ayer
Es mirar la montaña y decir no podré
Superar esta prueba que puede matar
Cuando estás justo ahí de poderla alcanzar

Yo sí creo que mal nos podría caer
Olvidarnos que aún este amor puede ser

Mentira, que el amor se nos fue de la piel
Es mentira
Que los besos no saben a miel
Es mentira
Que mi cuerpo te enfría
Que la magia termina
Me sabe a mentira

Mentira
Que lo bueno algún día se acaba
Es mentira
Que el adiós es volver a nacer
Es mentira
Que tus ojos se olvidan
Que la fe es como un barco tirado en la orilla
Juro que es mentira…

Que me digas que ahora es cuestión de olvidar
Y que por una vez no podemos pensar
Es querer renunciar a los sueños de ayer
Es abrir en el alma una herida sin fin
Es caer a un abismo
Mirarte partir
Es nadar contra el mar
Esta vida sin ti

Yo sí creo que mal nos podría caer
Olvidarnos que aún este amor puede ser

Mentira, que el amor se nos fue de la piel
Es mentira
Que los besos no saben a miel
Es mentira
Que mi cuerpo te enfría
Que la magia termina
Me sabe a mentira

Mentira
Que lo bueno algún día se acaba
Es mentira
Que el adiós es volver a nacer
Es mentira
Que tus ojos se olvidan
Que la fe es como un barco tirado en la orilla
Juro que es mentira…






Lie

You telling me now that love’s taste is awful
You telling me now that the sun will stop lighting up
Is just you giving up to the dreams that we had.
Is observing the mountain and saying “I won’t pass this proof that may kill me”
Even when you’re so close to reach it.

Yes, I think it would be bad for us
To forget that still our love can be real.

It’s a lie, that love has gone from our skin
It’s a lie
That kisses do not taste like honey
It’s a lie
That my body makes you cold
That the magic ends
It tastes as a lie.

It’s a lie
That the good things end someday
It’s a lie
That goodbye is being born again
It’s a lie
That your eyes are forgetable
That faith is a ship thrown away at the shore.
I swear, it’s all a lie.

You telling me now it’s all about forgetting
You telling me now we shouldn’t think about it
Is just you giving up to the dreams that we had
Is making an endless wound in the soul
To watch you leave
Is falling into the abysm
This life without you
Is swimming against the sea

Yes, I think it would be bad for us
To forget that still our love can be real.

It’s a lie, that love has gone from our skin
It’s a lie
That kisses do not taste like honey
It’s a lie
That my body makes you cold
That the magic ends
It tastes as a lie.

It’s a lie
That the good things end someday
It’s a lie
That goodbye is being born again
It’s a lie
That your eyes are forgetable
That faith is a ship thrown away at the shore.
I swear, it’s all a lie.

I am watching a movie 10:20

I am watching a movie about a communication theory called Agenda Setting. I mean, the movie has a situation and we have to anylize it according to the Agenda Setting Theory.

But I can't think. My mind remains blank. I wish I could. But I can't.

I slept early yesterday. I was in my bed around 11 pm. I couldn't see my mom as she went to the movies and came home late.

But today she told me a theaf opened her car and stole two laptops. So, I guess yesterday was a bad day for her too. And today it remains the bad day for me. Is like having a 48 hour day.

I wish I could make this stop. But I don't know how since I haven't found the source of my sadness.

I've stopped crying. Now my sadness remains. And I think the crying thing is coming again...

I'm crying so hard. I don't know what's happening to me. I cannot even see the keyboard. I am so desperate I feel in so much pain. I want to telephone someone but then I don't want to. I don't know what is it. I just feel in so much pain.I can't actually secream. But I'm screaming inside.I had such a bad day. It all turns around in my head. I feel like I'm exploding

Son las 10:01 10:05

Son las 10:01 am. Tengo muchísimas ganas de tomarme un café. Pero bueno. Aquí estoy en clase de Periodismo Político. Hay que exponer. Y me dio coraje que lo que he hecho de presentación no se vio aquí porque las computadoras tienen una versión vieja de Flash.

Tengo ganas de fumarme un cigarro. De salir al día nublado, pero qué lindos son los días nublados. Tengo ganas de estar sola. Claro que la soledad es un estado mental, pero a veces la gente estorba. Tengo ganas de estar sola. De estar sola hasta de mí misma. Quiero no pensar, o pensar una cosa a la vez. Porque pienso tantas cosas al mismo tiempo que a veces no sé qué decir, o cómo estructurarlo.

Bendita soledad. Bendita cuando la añoramos. Porque cuando llega sin ser bienvenida me molesta. Como a todos nos molesta.

Oh 22:24

Sometimes I just loath this personality of mine. Today was such a great day though it was destined to be awful. But a friend saved me today. And now I feel like something has changed. I don't know. I'm such a strange person. So weak.

My smile 12:22

As my friend is curious about my smile, I'm writing about it in this post. I have a sincere smile. My teeth are white -even if I smoke-and they are separated -like Madonna's teeth-. I have medium lips. But they look like I want to give a kiss. My eyes smile before my mouth does. My eyes are sad, but they smile a lot.

I smile a lot. I laugh a lot. Sometimes I laugh at nothing. I laugh at me a lot. I laugh at all the weird things that happen to me everyday. They happen a lot.

I'm really direct aswell, and sometimes ironic. I like sarcasm. One of my bests friends is really sarcastic, and another one is a bitch.

So I'm always laughing. That is how people notice when I'm sad. Because I cannot laugh when I'm worried.

J, you are my angel... 10:33

J is such a good person 9:40

She is. I mean, she says she is a bitch with men. But I guess all women hate men who insist. At least I do. I hate those.

But she is such a nice person. Thanks again, J

Estoy sumamente preocupada, y como no quiero estar prefiero ponerme a pensar en otras cosas. ¡En qué puedo pensar? Tal vez en el diccionario que está frente a mí o en la libreta que tengo para escribir estupideces, donde de vez en cuando sale alguna buena historia difícil de desechar.

Tal vez debería hablar de mi problema.Pero no, ahora sí es muy personal como para enterar a alguien del mismo. Me daría pena platicarlo, así que mejor vuelvo a enfocar mi mente.

Tal vez debería hablar de esta computadora que hoy recibe mis palabras y que ya es muy vieja. A falta de la otra me conecto aquí. Todo es tan lento en esta computadora. Pero me recuerda tantas cosas. Jajajajajajaja. A veces la odio y otras, cuando no la uso, la amo. Sería incapaz de tirarla o venderla como chatarra o regalarla. Hay tanto aquí que es tan mío. Esta ahora atrasada en algún momento fue como mi diario.

Aquí escribí tantas cartas, tantos cuentos, tantas páginas de mi historia. Y ahora está arrumbada, esperando ser utilizada, aunque sea como plato de segunda mesa.

Porque así la uso a veces, cuando la uso es porque no está mi otra computadora, y porque por alguna razón la otra está ocupada. O sea, tengo dos opciones -tres- antes que usar ésta. Pero a veces aquí estoy, como ahora, empleándola aunque yo teclee más rápido que lo que ella capta las señales y puedo visualizar en la pantalla lo que escribo. Aquí la espero horas a que se decida a enseñarme la página que le ordeno. Esta pavilion es cuestión de paciencia. Y hoy que me siento mal le tengo mucha, mucha paciencia...

Hell, nooo!!!! 18:15

I'm so fucked up. I'm in big big trouble and I don't know how to solve it. Oh fuck. This is were the past makes itself present. My actions in de past echoe in my present....

Fuckkkk. I'm so stressed.

What am I going to do???

Damn.

Sherley 11:58

Oh Sherley! I've been spending lots of quality time with her. I don't know. She shares so many thoughts with me. I love that. Sometimes we are thinking the same at the same time...


It's amazing how she goes inside my mind...

She's so great. I think she doesn't realize how gorgeous she is...

¡Qué fuerteeeeeeeeeee!

(Giggle)

Fucking pissed 11:53

I just showed the last post to Sherley. She says this someone does value my friendship. However, I don't always feel it. I love this someone. I'm just pissed off right now...

Fuck 11:47

I am on a break. This is Sherley's computer. I am mad. Oh! How much I hate when I value someone and this someone does not value my friendship.

I guess, sooner or later. The result will be me not caring. I don't wish that to happen. But sometimes I feel I'm in the border. Now I feel like that. Oh! Fuck.

The third part 10:33

Here it is, the third part of "Pedro y el Capitán"...

Untitled 8:06

I am a Mexican citizen. I live in Mexico City. Mexico City is the biggest city in the World. It has a beautiful, colonial downtown, and I go there really often.

I love downtown. I live more or less near downtown, but I make all my life in the south. I go to University, to the movies, even bars, most of my friends' houses are in the south.

I should move to south. But I don't . I live in an apartment. I've lived at my grandpa's ever since my father was killed and my mother had to work. Before that my grandma and one of my aunts look after us, so it wasn't that difficult to move in with them.

That aunt, we used to call her "Nena", but her name was Carmen. Carmen like the opera. Se was the one whom introduced me to the world of stories. She used to read to me even before I could understand what she said. And then before I was able to read for myself, she asked me to so she could rest her eyes for a while.

And by the time I was 6 she died. It's amazing how I can remember her soft, white skin and her curly hair better than I remember my father.

It pained me to find out she died. My mom didn't tell us immediatly. She let us know about my aunt's death a month after it happened. We had gone to the fair, and then my mom took us to the church. I had been told my aunt was in the hospital. So when my mom asked what were we praying for, I -an atheist ever since- answered I was praying for my aunt to heal. So my mother started crying and told us she wasn't coming back, for she fell asleep once and never got up again.

I believe that one is the best way of dying. She was a good woman. Really good. I loved her so much. Perhaps, I think now, she is the first person I loved in my life, or at least she was the first with whom I realized what love is.

I suffered. I cried and cried. And a month after me knowing, my grandma died. She had been in the hospital. So I was familiarizes with all her troubles and didn't feel in shock when she passed away.

Still, I wish I had known her better. My mom and my grandpa say I'm like her. Not physically, they say my mood is like hers. From my father I have the face -except the nose- and some other stuff. From my aunt Nena I have the gift of stories and magic. From my granmother I have the temper.

... But I was talking about my city. Well, in morning my mother drives us to school. We drop my brother first, and then she leaves me in College.

When I get out, I take the subway. I love it. Not because it is beautiful -in fact, it is dirty and smells- but I love it because I observe people and because I come out with lots of stories. I'm even writing a compilation of subway short stories. I get to be sit all the time. When I arrive my grandpa is sit on his couch, my mother is at his room or at the computer's. My mom is at her job.

But sometimes I stay at school more hours than I should, or I go to do something with my friends, and I arrive later. Sometimes Aldo drives me home. Or I stay at Mario's.

I don't enjoy clubs as much as I enjoy bars, or pubs, or other places. I am happy play Scrabble, being home, having coffee and cigars. Hearing my friends creating songs.

I love sleeping. Love my pillows and love to go into my cold sheets and warm them with my body temperature. I love my mother's desire another skin colour. She is white -I am not, I inhereted my colour from my father-. She world like to be "darker". She looks at her milky legs and feels so disappointed. Like a little child.

I'm taller than she is, so I guess it is a fact for me to feel so tender about her. I adore my mom. I admire her so much.

She writes. She thinks a lot. I admire Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, a Mexican writer who was a nun and wrote wonderful love poems. Some people say she was a lesbian. I don't know. I don't care. But I admire my mom and my grandpa.

We are all humanitarian people. My mom studied communication, my grandpa's proffession is the same as Gutenberg's -you can imagine the book obssession is in my blood-, and my brother is studying history.

This has become a rather large post. I shall stop here to continue with my duties.

Orpheus and Eurydice 18:11

I was reading about Persephone and it had included Orpheus and Eurydice's myth. That is one of my favorites. That one and Narciso's (I don't know how to write it in English).

But Orpheus!!! Oh, Orpheus going to his beloved. Finding her in the underworld. The Godess giving him the chance of taking Eurydice out. The only condition: she is leaving right behind him and he must not look back. Being so worried about her... the creatures of the underworld making him believe she is in danger. Perhaps falling, perhaps she is not behind him. So he turns. So he looks at her vanishing. Well not vanishing, being taken to the Underworld again.

Such a sad myth. It reminds me Sodoma and Gomorra (again, I don't know how to write the names in English) in The Bible -yes, yes, The Bible-. The angel tells the family they are leaving the city before God burns it. But warns them. He tells them they must not look back. They have to look to the front. Just to the front.

And then, as they are leaving, the wife feels so curioused about what's happening in Sodoma that she turns back. And she is converted in a salt statue.

Both of the stories have the same meaning: do not disobey your God/ gods.

God can be such a nice guy if you do what He claims. But if you don't, his anger is relentless. At least it was in the Old Testament (I don't know if it is the translation for the books in The Bible writen before Christ). In the New Testament He is all love. He is no longer vengful, as He was in the Old one. He is willing to forget, He even sends his son to sacrifice for humanity. Even if He knows human beings will not be grateful.

I don't know what took me to these thoughts. I have a strange way of thinking.

I don't know why I miss that post. Yes J, perhaps you should come to Mexico... 16:42

I am well 16:42

Thanks for your concerning. I am well. Yesterday I went to the movies again. I watched "Little Children". What a good movie season!!! I can't decide which one of the movies I've seen is my favorite.

In this movie I feel so identified with Sarah, Kate Winslet's character. Not because of the situation, but because of the personality. Right now I'm still in my pijamas. I slept a lot and then I woke up to watch tv...

Well, not only watch tv. I've decided to continue writing my novel. I stopped because I felt so emotionally tired. There's a lot of me in my novel. But I just took out my notebook and started writing again.

About the hiding part. Yes... I guess I like to hide. I'm hidden most of the time you know? I don't mean this to sound arrogant, but sometimes I hide because I don't feel understood. So it's easier to be me for me, because I understand myself.

It has change a bit since I started my career. Not because of my career but because of the people I found. They accept me and care about me.

Laguna insomne 14:23

A veces me gustaría haber inventado un vocabulario distinto o un lenguaje nuevo para hablar conitgo. Así podría escribirte aquí sin que nadie más que tú entendiera lo que quiero decirte...

Después lo pienso dos veces, y encuentro que los símbolos se construyen solos a medida que se da la convivencia. Entonces las palabras adquieren un significado tan nuevo y distinto, que el del diccionario pasa a segundo plano. Entonces las letras ya no son sólo letras; los lugares adquieren un bagaje tan importante que difícilmente puede otro comprenderlo.

Somos seres que difícilmente encuentran lo solaz en otra cosa distinta de los símbolos que a diario nos inventamos. Todo es símbolos, todo es prueba, todo son significados.

A diario escribimos palabras en el diccionario personal. Cuando la lluvia cae y roza el cabello de dos amigos que caminan en la oscuridad. Cuando escuchamos la experiencia revelada de un hombre incomprendido. Cuando las miradas son tafetanes y cada día nos inventamos saucedales para marcar la vida. Cuando descubrimos que por bueno que se sea para una cosa, el otro puede vencer en esas absurdas y divertidas competencias.

Sí, puede haber tantos óbices como momentos valiosos. Pero sin ellos, estos momentos no se apreciarían tanto. SIn dolor no hay esperanza, sin insomnios el sueño nunca es más que sueño.

Y si en este relato incluyo el estacionamiento de McDonald's, los magníficos silencios y las lágrimas desamparadas que encuentran consuelo en las risas de nada. Si también agrego poemas de otros, añoranzas comunes, profesiones encontradas, me sentiré remozada con la fórmula para el ungüento que con hojas secas aplico sobre mi alma.

Porque todas esas bagatelas, amigo mío, son arengas del espíritu, que si el mío no tiene nada, con tu compañía y tu encanto, se llena y me hace recordar que algo tengo, algo bueno, y por eso eres mi amigo.

My short movie. 7:54

This is it. I guess you won't be able to undersand what it says, and the quality is not quite well because we uploaded it to youtube. However, I'd like you to watch it. There are two parts of it.

It is called "Pedro y el Capitán", "Peter and the Captain", and I adapted the screenplay from a play by Mario Benedetti, a south american writer.

I will try to translate the script for you in the weekend. I hope I may.

Kisses,

Charbelí

My legs 7:04

I thought about my legs yesterday. I thought about the guy telling my best friend he loved my legs, and his longing for the gym class so he can se them uncovered as I used shorts.

I remember him looking at them and making me feel so beautiful. And so wanted. I remember it and love my legs. I used to miss that. Now I remember and hope someone will look at my legs with love, because he didn't love them, he just liked them.

Back to basics 9:13

I am right where I started.

Estoy viendo Ally McBeal. De mal humor esperando que algo me baje el mal humor. Desafortunadamente nada lo baja. Tengo tan mal humor que nada me contenta. ¡Qué día tan asqueroso!

Hoy no quiero escrbir en inglés palabras que difícilmente son leídas. Prefiero mi idioma. Mi español. Mi mundo.

Prefiero, porque amo, el español. Siempre lo amaré. Sólo escribo en inglés porque quiero ser leída, pero en estos momentos la persona que a veces me lee en inglés está muy ocupada.

Pues ya qué hacer. Así regreso a mi idioma. A mi vida.

Estoy de malas...

God 8:44

I don't believe. I just don't. Sometimes I have glimces. Like when something really odd happened to Mario and me. I looked for him desperatly. But I don't found him.

Since I was little. I looked for him. I looked for faith in him. But I didn't find him. I didn't. And I won't find Him. Because i just think he doesn't exist.

Nevertheless, I admire those who believe in Him. I admire real faith. The faith they have to trust someone who isn't there and does not manifest. The faith to believe there is life beyond death.

I don't have it. I think we just die. I think we love here. We loath here. We live here. It's pur choice. But they live believeng there's a life there. The just love there. The really live there.

I can't believe. I get older and more atheist.

Bowling and turtles. 18:42

I am going with my friends today. Roberto has got the Wii... oh it's great. I've been playing box and golf. I suck at golf. I'm great at boxing.

Right now I was jus t doing my useless journalism homework. It is not useless because it is journalism, it is useless because I just have to repeat a report without even reading anything...

Ok ok... What The Fuckkkkkk. I am blowling...


Mmm... this has been a great day. I even dressed with white colour. And I have new tennis. They are nice. Jajajaja, talking nonsenses again.

I am a turtle.

I love turtles. I've got two turtle pets. They are called Mine and Min. Mine and Min. Love them. They are so little and cute. In winter they sleep and they got skinny. In summer they got really fat.

Oh I love them.

Yes, thank you 8:25

I'm ok. I was so happy yesterday, that for a moment I felt sad and abandoned. I dreamt about my past. Well, not about my past, about my ghosts. I dreamt I was in a cafe talking to the main ghost. And he said he loved me and he wanted to touch my skin because he thoght I was a dream. He told me he had made a mistake and asked me if I'd take him back. And I had the chance to tell him "no".

I'm over it, but it makes me think why he appears in my dreams when I'm happy. It was not a happy dream, but it wasn't a nightmare either.

I abandoned him. I left him a really awful letter and abandoned him. But I wasn't to blame. I was patient. I was patient for four years. I waited. And it was my fault, because he didn't ask me to. He was one of those guys who never told me anything, but he didn't let me go. He didn't let me move on. He was like "no strings attached", but he got jealous, and he was so possessive, and I loved it because I thought it was his way to demonstrate what he felt for me.

But he did not feel anything. He used me. And I was such an asshole. I let him use me. It was both our responsibility.

But I'm happy now. I'm happy because I realized my life was so much more than me, than me abandon him, that him abanon me.

I thought it yesterday as I was smoking a cigarette and lloking at the stars and feeling the wind toching my skin. I feel a strange, hope long happiness.

What a great day.

So yes, I'm ok, thank you. How are you???

Is it that simple to let me go? Is it that simple to stop talking to me? I guess I'll never know. Or perhaps I'm just a paranoid android.

But I hate this.

The Clone 9:29

My mom took her laptop so everytime I want to write something in this blog I have to come to the desk. My wonderful computer hasn't come back from Roberto's cause my mom is very busy and hasn't had time to pick it up.

So right now I am struggling (is it well spelled?) with the oldest of my computers because it has served its time, and I am using it because my mom's laptop and my computer are both gone.

I feel better. As better as to smoke a cigarette as I write. I'm alone right now. My grandpa has gone to have breakfast and the maid hasn't arrived yet. So I am all alone with the chance of smoking at home. I don't smoke at home. All of them know I'm a smoker, but as my mother and my grandpa smoke too, my poor brother is always complaining about it. I don't smoke at home because of him.

Iwas about to take a nap when my phone rang. It has the Kill Bill tone and it scared me. I was almost asleep.

So I didn't fall again. I taped a brazilian soap called "The Clone", and I'm watching it. Don't have TiVo. I taped with the vcr. It's a great soap. Really original. I had watched it when TV Azteca -a national chain- brought it to Mexico, but I didn't see it all.

Now I try, but as I have other things to do, I can't see it everyday. So I tape it.
Ja, this is silly. Me talking about nothing. Well, I'm talking about something, but it is a very stupid smalltalk.

Sometimes we need stupid in our lives. Soaps are my stupidness. I love them. Is a secret known by anyone that knows me, and now by anyone that reads this blog.

Soaps... jajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajaja. Time to go back and keep watching "The Clone"

I'm sick. It's my body's second warning. The first one came with my kidney illness. And now is my stomach. I didn't go to College. I feel sick.

I did not sleep well. I can go trough a day without sleeping well.

I am already thinking about my weekend. I think I'm leaving the city. Oh, I hope so. I don't want to be here. I want to GO...

I'm feeling awful. And I'm sleepy too.

-------------------------------------------

I've had a short life. Only two decades. However, in my short time on Earth, I've had to say goodbye to my beloved ones lots of times.

To my father, to my aunt Nena, to my grandmother, to my friends, to D, to R, to F, to so many people. And I felt like they were dying -well, some of them really were, the others I created a fantasy-. I created the fantasy that they were death, because I wouldn't stand thinking the live in the same planet, perhaps in the same city, and they were away from me continuing with their lives, just as I continued mine.

So I wore black, and cry for them, and had a whole ritual for their deaths in my life. It was my goodbye. I felt sad for them, I mourned on their memories. And then I moved on.

Maybe I cheat on myself. Because they are not death. The live, and when I had to socialize with one of the people I had killed in my life, it felt like talking to a spirit, or like a dream, and the death one visited me in my dreams.

But it works. And, even though I really wish I never break up with anyone and reach the level of my mental funeral, if I had to do it again, I'd do it.

I never forgot, but the funerals I organize help me to remember the nice things, and to avoid the awful ones.

My Sunday... 20:59

I am having a great Sunday. I am at my best friend's home. She is talking with her boyfriend. I'm showing her some videos in Youtube.

I had a pleasant day. We were at the park chatting and laughing and talking about serious stuff, the kind of stuff we did not think by the time we met, when we were 11 or 12 years old.

Now everything is different. She's got a boyfriend. A life. She's studying law. I'm studying comunication. She wants to dance. I want to be a writer, or a screenplayer, or something like that.

The dreams... the dreams... the dreams. When we were children we wanted to eat the World. Now we still do, but we are seriously thinking how is it gonna happen?

I think what I just wrote has no meaning. Or it is really bad written. But I thought it that way and it makes sense to me.

I just realized my Jane Doe friend -whose real name is T- has become important. I told my best friend about her. I even write my blog in English so she can read it. She is important. "Ella es importante".

Well JT, I hope you're ok. I just read the water part. Amazing how solid bodies can have so much water.

Nature is amazing. It is so beautiful, and it has the temptation of being wrong. Wrong is sometimes beautiful. And, is it really wrong?

I am talking nonsenses. I need a cigarette.

I love tattoos. I may have one someday. I just have so much things to do in life... Damn time, I don't know if I can ever do them all.

My friend is still talking with her boyfriend on the phone. But I'm done writting this post.

Cheers.

Ulysses 9:01

Things 20:17

A wonderful Saturday. I spent it with my brother. We went at the cinema and watched Notes on a scandal. Great movie. Then we went downtown to the bookstores of old books -I don't know if in English there's a term to call them, in Spanish they are "librerías de viejo"-. We were looking for a book named "Life in Mexico", by Frances Calderón de la Barca.

My brother is studying History, so he has to read that book.

I love downtown. It is such a beautiful, colonial place. With so much Mexican history in every building, in every store. I feel like they all embrace me and invite me to go inside and to win time.

We came back. My grandpa was watching soccer games. Then my brother and I went out again to din. We ate hamburgers. Delicious. They were not from McDonald's or Burger King, but from a place nearby.

Yesterday, I had a great day too. I went to see Pan's Labyrinth and it touched my heart. It is a really strong movie and so tender at the same time.

Then Mario and I went to pick up Sherley, and though the traffic was awful, we went to La Condesa, to a place called St. Patrick's Pub.

I had a great time. Really, really great.

Right now I'm chatting with Daffne. We are both connected in messenger.

I bought three new books. One written by Stendhal, another one is about journalism and the third one was about Spanish history. They cost me 23 pesos. I don't know. Perhaps that is like 2 dollars or so.

They are so cheap because they are old books. In my list of things I love, I forgot to mention that I love the smell of old sheets. Those bookstores smell like that. What a great smell.

Now I am listening to Mecano. Mecano is a Spanish band, really successful before they separated. I love songs composed by Nacho and José María Cano. Ana Torroja sang them and the composed them. Three really talented guys put together. They made magic. Magic they made. Even the light songs are so well armed, with so much dedication and effort. They wrote the exact words and the exact music. She had the exact voice to sing.

My favorite Mecano songs are El 7 de septiembre (September 7th), Un mundo futuro (Future world), Mujer contra mujer (Woman against woman), Naturaleza muerta (Death nature), Stereosexual, Aire (Air) and Cuerpo y corazón (Body and heart).

Well, I guess this is it. Perhaps I will write again later.

No, no, no... 11:47

I didn't have a class. So Chachis, Ovi and me went to have coffee and cigarettes. We thought the next class was at 12:30. But no!!!! It began at 12 o'clock.

Fuckkkkk!!!!!!!!!!! The teacher is lecturing about balances. About numbers. Now I don't understand ANYTHING!!!!! I hate when that happens to me.

Well, I'm going to watch Pan's Labyrinth. Cinemas are exhibing it again. Then I'm going to La Condesa -it is a region in the city taht has bars, and restaurants and pubs, I love it-. I'm hanging out with Mario. I love him. He is back in my life.

I have to pay attention.

Great page. 10:20

http://www.gutenberg.org/

My really favorite thing 6:50

So... this is as good as it gets. So peaceful, hearing nothing but the wind, the savage wind. So... this is as fortunate as it gets. Seeing a bunch of strangers and trying to recognize me and my beloved ones in that toes, or those eyes.

This is as great as it is. Looking at "Chapultepec" and believing in the mexican roots. Being in contact with history and being conscious it all has a story. Evolution is the story of nature. A biography is the story of a life. My hands are stories: because my mother married my father and no other. Because if that hadn't happened, then I would have never been me. And my hands are story because I write stories. They materialize them in words written in paper. Otherwise, I would forget these moments. Words are such wonderful reminders.

My favorite things in the world, above dry leaves or coffee and cigarettes, are words. I often wonder why is a leaf called a leaf instead of meat. And why can't meat mean house. They are so great that express either thoughts, either human lack.

They are words. A sume of letters put together to make sense. We can hear them, read them, feel them. When we feel hope we can say it's hope. We feel it. We feel words.

I'm so in love with words. I love them so much I treat them as I would trat a lover: I cherish them. I always want to know more and I feel so warm and tender when they approach. I even get nervous, and I feel the need of being a better person, at least an articulate one.

Wittgenstein said "the limits of my world are the limits of my language". And I agree. We think in words, and as someone knows more words, is like knowing more people or having more expierences.

If I used a word to call myself other than Charbelí, I would use Clemency. It is not because I'm merciful. It is just because I love the rythm of that word, and that is what I aspire to be.

Words are like people: imagine a person called "dry", I would think of and old lady, a spinster old lady, a little bitter with nostalgic smile and small blue eyes, with a yellow-old skin, and thin, skeletic hands.

Sweet, I'd imagine a doll. My first meaningful doll who was a person, a friend to me.

What would you imagine?

Imagine: the word that describes even the impossible is possible. Is the freedom of mind.

I want to write a short story in English. But I don't know if Y'm capable. I can write in Spanish, but I want you to understand it, J (or T, or whatever your name is).