dream of every different way you could throw it all away.

Do not stand at my grave and weep / Mary Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave bereft
I am not there. I have not left.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. TS Eliot

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky,

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats,

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question...

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go,

Talking of Michaelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the windowpanes

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle upon the windowpanes

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the windowpanes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go,

Talking of Michaelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--

(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin,

(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions that a minute will reverse.

For I have known them already, known them all-

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons,

I know the voices dying with a dying fall,

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all-

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling ton he wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all,

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare,

(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie around a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And how should I then presume?

And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep... tired... or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet - and here's no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worthwhile,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball,

To roll it towards some overwhelming question,

To say, "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all," --

If one, settling a pillow by her head,

Should say, "That is not what I meant, at all."

"That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worthwhile,

After the sunsets and dooryards and sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--

And this, and so much more?--

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worthwhile

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning towards the window, should say:

"That is not it, at all,

That is not what I meant, at all."

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous,

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old... I grow old...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves,

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea,

By sea-girls wreathed in seaweed, red and brown,

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

"Quédense con el pueblo, pensadores, con el pueblo real que vive bajo sus ojos, y no vayan a perderse en le país de las quimeras. [...] Trabajen para aquello que existe, para aquello que respira y dejen de perseguir sobras y de soñar despiertos.[...] No discutan por discutir, no escriban por escribir, para sorprender [...] Piensen en el pueblo, tengan cuidado de su cerebro, de sus necesidades reales, urgentes."

Agricol Perdiguier

guayaquil city is gonna kill you babe :)

Years - Sylvia Plath

They enter as animals from the outer

Space of holly where spikes
Are not thoughts I turn on, like a Yogi,
But greenness, darkness so pure
They freeze and are.

O God, I am not like you
In your vacuous black,
Stars stuck all over, bright stupid confetti.
Eternity bores me,
I never wanted it.

What I love is
The piston in motion . . .
My soul dies before it.
And the hooves of the horses,
There merciless churn.

And you, great Stasis . . .
What is so great in that!
Is it a tiger this year, this roar at the door?
It is a Christus,
The awful
God-bit in him
Dying to fly and be done with it?
The blood berries are themselves, they are very still.

The hooves will not have it,
In blue distance the pistons hiss.

FELIZ CUMPLEAÑOS NIETZSCHE

Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche nació el 15 de octubre de 1844 en Röcken, una pequeña ciudad de la Sajonia prusiana

:)

celebrando su cumpleaños #166, comparto mis extractos favoritos de más allá del bien y el mal ..

55

Existe una larga escalera de la crueldad religiosa, que consta de numerosos peldaños; pero

tres de éstos son lo más importantes. En otro tiempo la gente sacrificaba a su dios seres

humanos, acaso precisamente aquellos a quien más amaba, [...] Después en la época moral

de la humanidad, la gente sacrificaba a su dios los instintos más fuertes que poseía, [...]

Finalmente, ¿qué quedaba todavía por sacrificar? ¿No tenía la gente que acabar

sacrificando alguna vez todo lo consolador, lo santo, lo saludable, toda esperanza, toda

creencia en una armonía oculta, en bienaventuranzas y justicias futuras?, ¿no tenía que

sacrificar a Dios mismo y, por crueldad contra sí, adorar la piedra, la estupidez, la fuerza de

gravedad, el destino, la nada? Sacrificar a Dios por la nada -este misterio paradójico de la

crueldad suprema ha quedado reservado a la generación que precisamente ahora surge en el

horizonte: todos nosotros conocemos ya algo de esto. -

292

Un filósofo: es un hombre que constantemente vive, ve, oye, sospecha, espera, sueña cosas

extraordinarias; alguien al que sus propios pensamientos le golpean como desde fuera,

como desde arriba y desde abajo, constituyendo su especie peculiar de acontecimientos y

rayos; acaso él mismo sea una tormenta que camina grávida de nuevos rayos; un hombre

fatal, rodeado siempre de truenos y gruñidos y aullidos y acontecimientos inquietantes. Un

filósofo: ay, un ser que con frecuencia huye de sí mismo, que con frecuencia tiene miedo de

sí, — pero que es demasiado curioso para no «volver a sí» una y otra vez...

294

El vicio olímpico. -A despecho de ese filósofo que, como genuino inglés, intentó crear

entre todas las cabezas que piensan una mala fama al reír — «el reír es un grave defecto de

la naturaleza humana, que toda cabeza que piensa se esforzará en superar» (Hobbes) —, yo

me permitiría incluso establecer una jerarquía de los filósofos según el rango de su risa —

hasta terminar, por arriba, en aquellos que son capaces de la carcajada áurea. Y suponiendo

que también los dioses filosofen, cosa a la que más de una conclusión me ha empujado ya

—, yo no pongo en duda que, cuando lo hacen, saben reír también de una manera

sobrehumana y nueva — ¡y a costa de todas las cosas serias! A los dioses les gustan las

burlas: parece que no pueden dejar de reír ni siquiera en las acciones sagradas.

296

¡Ay, qué sois, pues, vosotros, pensamientos míos escritos y pintados! No hace mucho

tiempo erais aún tan multicolores, jóvenes y maliciosos, tan llenos de espinas y de secretos

aromas, que me hacíais estornudar y reír — ¿y ahora? Ya os habéis despojado de vuestra

novedad, y algunos de vosotros, lo temo, estáis dispuestos a convertiros en verdades: ¡tan

inmortal es el aspecto que ellos ofrecen, tan honesto, tan aburrido, que parte el corazón! ¿Y

alguna vez ha sido de otro modo? ¿Pues qué cosas escribimos y pintamos nosotros,

nosotros los mandarines de pincel chino, nosotros los eternizadores de las cosas que se

dejan escribir, qué es lo único que nosotros somos capaces de pintar? ¡Ay, siempre

únicamente aquello que está a punto de marchitarse y que comienza a perder su perfume!

¡Ay, siempre únicamente tempestades que se alejan y se disipan, y amarillos sentimientos

tardíos! ¡Ay, siempre únicamente pájaros cansados de volar y que se extraviaron en su

vuelo, y que ahora se dejan atrapar con la mano — con nuestra mano! ¡Nosotros

eternizamos aquello que no puede ya vivir y volar mucho tiempo, únicamente cosas

cansadas y reblandecidas! Y sólo para pintar vuestra tarde, oh pensamientos míos escritos y

pintados, tengo yo colores, acaso muchos colores, muchas multicolores delicadezas y

cincuenta amarillos y grises y verdes y rojos: — pero nadie me adivina, a base de esto, qué

aspecto ofrecíais vosotros en vuestra mañana, vosotros chispas y prodigios repentinos de mi

soledad, ¡vosotros mis viejos y amados pensamientos perversos!