2 de septiembre de 2013

Cerebro fundido

Y...uf... uno termina con el cerebro medio fundido.
Acepto ideas de cerebros fundidos; alguna sensación rescatada después de todo un día de laburo, sirve. Lo que te pasa por la cabeza cuando te están dejando por otra persona, sirve. Qué se te viene a la mente cuando digo "pasado", sirve. En qué estado estaba tu cerebro cuando te dijo "prefiero que seamos amigos", sirve. Y también qué alquimias se llevan a cabo en la materia gris cuando nos va bien, no? pasa que siempre es más placentero torturarse con las pifiadas de la vida.
Todas esas imágenes que recolectan casi sin reparar en ello (o haciéndolo) me son útiles, escarben ahí.
Me alimento de ideas, y en tiempos de escasez cualquier ayuda viene bien, aparte después les regalo el dibujo (supongamos que puede suceder).
Espero que lean esto, pero espero más que les gusten los dibujitos, y espero aún más que los hagan mejores personas de alguna manera mágica que no me figuro muy bien.

Más en Tumblr http://juan-reca.tumblr.com/
Aún más en DeviantArt http://juanreca.deviantart.com/

Y más que más en Flickr! http://www.flickr.com/photos/juan-reca/

Un abrazo,

Reca.





















8 de febrero de 2012

Throwing a miserable sound...

Foto sacada por mí. Navidad, Carhué.

2 Flies


The flies are angry bits of life;
why are they so angry?
it seems they want more,
it seems almost as if they
are angry
that they are flies;
it is not my fault;
I sit in the room
with them
and they taunt me
with their agony;
it is as if they were
loose chunks of soul
left out of somewhere;
I try to read a paper
but they will not let me
be;
one seems to go in half-circles
high along the wall,
throwing a miserable sound
upon my head;
the other one, the smaller one
stays near and teases my hand,
saying nothing,
rising, dropping
crawling near;
what god puts these
lost things upon me?
other men suffer dictates of
empire, tragic love…
I suffer
insects…
I wave at the little one
which only seems to revive
his impulse to challenge:
he circles swifter,
nearer, even making
a fly-sound,
and one above
catching a sense of the new
whirling, he too, in excitement,
speeds his flight,
drops down suddenly
in a cuff of noise
and they join
in circling my hand,
strumming the base
of the lampshade
until some man-thing
in me
will take no more
unholiness
and I strike
with the rolled-up-paper -
missing! -
striking,
striking,
they break in discord,
some message lost between them,
and I get the big one
first, and he kicks on his back
flicking his legs
like an angry whore,
and I come down again
with my paper club
and he is a smear
of fly-ugliness;
the little one circles high
now, quiet and swift,
almost invisible;
he does not come near
my hand again;
he is tamed and
inaccessible; I leave
him be, he leaves me
be;
the paper, of course,
is ruined;
something has happened,
something has soiled my
day,
sometimes it does not
take man
or a woman,
only something alive;
I sit and watch
the small one;
we are woven together
in the air
and the living;
it is late
for both of us.


Charles Bukowski