Cortés y la Caida

-¡Esforzados hijos de Santiago, por vuestras almas, por su Sacra Cesárea Católica Real Majestad, el Rey Carlos I, y sobre todo Dios que cuida de Castilla y León. Empuñad vuestros aceros y acabad con los fieros Mexicanos!- A gritos fue recibida la litania de Cortés hacia sus hombre, en aquel lugar que seria conocido como la batalla de Otumba, y a gritos de “Santiago guía mi acero” le respondían sus hombres aunque difícilmente audible entre los gritos de los cientos de miles de mexicanos en el valle debajo de ellos.

Mientras iba y venia con su caballo de aquí para acá, entre relincho y relincho del pobre animal, levantaba Cortés los ánimos de sus tropas y supervisaba las armas, los aceros, las escopetas, ambas alineadas a los lados de aquella colina que miraba hacia el valle y de la cual podían aprovechar su buena posición para acomodar los cañones a buena vista. Mientras daba una inspección final uno de los cañones trono e hizo un horrible estruendo que asusto al caballo de Cortés y le puso a trote directo contra el acantilado que daba hacia el valle.

-¡Capitán, cuidado!- Grito uno de los viejos soldados, de aquellos que vivieron la victoria del Capitán, el Gran Capitán Córdoba, en las guerras de Italia. Corriendo a rescatarle el hombre de pronto tropezó sin darse cuenta, cayendo por las rocosas piedras, que estaban muy grandes, mas grandes que el ego de Cortés, causándole una grave fractura en la cabeza.

 -¡Joder!- Cortés, logrando detener su caballo justo al borde, miro al fondo donde veía al pobre hombre pidiendo ayuda -¡Bueno viejo terco, que la pelea es aquí arriba y no tenemos prisa!-

Blinds

There are gaps in the blinds at work; it’s a view into another world, when people walk past the gap you never see them go past the next. Maybe the gaps let you see people who never made it past the first hurdle, they’re the ones you lose sight off. Perhaps the gap is there to remind us of those people or perhaps they just cross the road, and get hit by a car.

I try not to look through the gaps anymore, it doesn't show you anything you actually want to see, it only gives you a glimpse of what might have been and then it’s gone behind the next blind.

En secreto

El amor sucede en un lugar secreto. No hay ruido mas que suspiros que se convierten en aliento. Todo empieza con un cigarro. Hay silencio que ninguno quiere cortar. Nos vamos cada quien por nuestro rumbo. En ese lugar escribo "Je t'aime" y tiempo después encuentro una sonrisa y un corazón debajo de el.

Cold

It’s cold

I remember the sun, caressing high at noon

The laugh of children, the smell of spring

And then the pass of age, wings grow large

When nations sink with glory anew

Their laughter end, lines are cut

Not much remains, a fine line, a reminder

Here, at the high tree at noon, I wait

My shadow fading, nine to twelve o clock

La Conquista

[Hernán] Cortés podrá haber conquistado enormes territorios, tesoros y gente, pero nunca jamas conquisto un corazón de verdad.

Vieja Soledad

De vez en cuando recuerdo uno de los primeros sueños que me vienen a memoria, de los mas importantes podría decirse.

Estaba en un parque cerca de mi casa, solo, mi madre simplemente se despedía de mi y me decía que ya no vendría por mi o que me dejaría, el detalle no lo recuerdo pero si la intención, y se fue en aquel ford topaz azul cielo 84, 85, 86, no recuerdo el año y la verdad el carro no me trae buenos recuerdos ni se por que habría yo de seleccionarlo, según mi madre me contó yo lo elegí cuando lo compramos y hasta la fecha me pregunto por que elegí ese carro, ahora que no puedo negar algo importante de ese carro y es que duro bastantes años con nosotros y no tuvo tantos problemas como podría pensar.

A detalle recuerdo también que el sentimiento de soledad y tristeza me invadió de una manera tan horrible, la desesperación y el observar los alrededores sin encontrar absolutamente a nadie, teniendo siete años y siendo un recluso en casa termine por sentirme invadido por el mundo y sus inmensos alrededores, como diría el mismo Martín Heiddeger o Jean-Paul Sartre o quien carajos sea, honestamente ya no se quien dijo que, ni cuando, ni por que, el Internet se ha vuelto una terrible arma de doble filo que no deja muchas veces buen sentido de las cosas por lo que termino pensando simplemente en la frase o en el texto y ya, ahí termina.

En fin, la frase era "hemos sido arrojados a la existencia" y en efecto, arrojado ahí, sin nada ni nadie, solo, sin entender exactamente que es lo que estaba pasando o por que estaba pasando, ahí, solo, en el mundo, sin nada mas ni nada menos.

Cuando desperté sentía una terrible soledad y tenia lagrimas escurriendo por los lados, creo que nunca me he sentido tan triste en toda mi vida.

¿Que se siente ser un baño? (What is it like to be a bath?) (Ingles)

Thomas Nagel once asked, what is it like to be a bat?

I honestly can't answer this because I am not a bat nor do I have the interest of becoming one, maybe the anthropomorphic society could help him out here.

I do have a question to him that we could answer though, what is it like to be a bath?

I think we can get the answer to this one from coprophiliacs and urophiliacs.

Parte del camino a la Inmortalidad (Ingles)

 Part of the Path of Immortality

The fedora man examined the book with curiosity, he had heard about it, La Verdadera Historia de la Conquista de la Nueva Espana, a book originally written by Hernan Cortez which was eventually admonished to someone called Bernal Diaz del Castillo, whoever that was he could not remember him from his days with the Conquistadores.

This version of the book hid more than half the horrible details he had to go through in order to survive in the jungles of what is now known as Mexico, not only him, now that he remembered, but all those brave and foolish men who followed Captain Cortez in search for glory in the name of Charles I and God, the Catholic God.

He closed the book and sighed, nothing of value he could rescue from it, he needed to find the original and it was probably safeguarded by the Jesuits or the Freemasons, remembering, for him at least, was hard and it became harder with every passing year as his memory eroded through the infinity of his subconscious and eventually disappeared from sight, only reachable when he dreamed and traveled throughout the Dream World, the 4th Dimension, and witnessed some of the ancient cities, towns, battlefields and personalities, a flood of memories would come to him and if he was lucky enough then maybe he could pull the right memory, just maybe.

Being immortal had advantages, at first it looks great, but eventually, when one realizes what the disadvantages are and how, slowly, your mind starts to deteriorate, losing all purpose or sense of questing for knowledge, power or love it becomes senseless to be immortal.

"I lusted for this" The Fedora man adjusted his hat and looked over the emerald fields towards the setting sun "I wanted it, everyone does, and now that I have it I regret it so much, in so many ways, that I can't begin to enunciate them"

Slowly he sat down and observed the sun with obsession.

"I can't recall when was the last time seeing the sun setting was such a joy, it thrilled me, I remember that, it was always the victory over darkness, that terrible mantle that adorns us while we twitch and tremble in our beds" He removed his leather gloves and with his right hand caressed the grass next to him. "I used to enjoy the grass, its color, cloth, I remember enjoying the ingenuity with which they created fascinating pieces, embedded with beautiful art, the colors, flashing royally and the excitement of conquering the heart of others, a quest to settle in the heart of women for the rest of your life, to make new friends, find new civilizations, learn their tongue and traditions, to see the world through the eyes of someone else..."

Slowly he pulled some grass and pressed it hard onto his hand, he continued this process a few more times until he left a small hole where he could sit his hand without having to touch the grass.

"I remember life used to be worth something, don't get me wrong I'm not crazy just because, I'm not exactly mad, it's just a common misunderstanding to call me as such when there is nothing wrong with me except for my mind slowly drifting away from more than eight centuries of being alive and then, knowing that you can't die, you lose the thrill of everything. Afraid of dying, no, I have always lied about that, I am not afraid of dying I am just paranoid when I see creatures beyond my understanding, knowing that I can turn to dust and then come back is the icing on the top of the cake, they, the anti-gods, should destroy me and I have always let them believe that but that is a lie, I will come back, in horrible pain but I will be back"

"What terrible world is this in which one can find himself not able to die and not truly alive, just as H.P. Lovecraft said that even with strange aeons death may die... how can death die, is it really possible for me to see the end of all and a new beginning, no, I refuse, I rather see everything around me turn to ashes than to witness that first, maybe, just maybe, I'll earn the wrath of one of the Gods and finally I will earn my death"

The Fedora man stood up slowly as he witnessed the end of race, the sun finally defeated by the terrible night, sheer darkness taking hold of everything, no stars, a faint bloody red moon coming into sight.

"One day I'll witness the end of it all and I'll be more than glad if I am responsible for it"

La verdad (Ingles)

Allegory to the 5th Symphony of Beethoven

Imagine that suddenly the world ends, for any given reason, and you are the last remaining human to walk the Earth, at least that you know of.

You want to remember the 5th symphony of Beethoven, you have it on your head and play it the way you remember it, keep in note also that there are no proofs of how the original 5th symphony sounded, no physical records, no sound, sheets, nothing, just a memory in your head which you call the 5th Symphony.

Now, add another factor.

During your time in this lonely land it eventually comes to pass that another human has found you or vice versa, eventually there's a setup, socialization and there may be time to reminiscence how life was before everything ended and that's where the 5th Symphony comes into play again.

While mentioning this the other person stands baffled, never heard about the 5th Symphony at all, not even the author or a small reference. Taking this into consideration you decide to play the 5th Symphony off the top of your head but begin to have doubts on the veracity of what you are playing.

Here is something to take into consideration then.

Being aware that what you are playing can no longer be considered the 5th Symphony it is no longer the 5th Symphony of Beethoven but, since there is no verifiable proof, you can now denominate it the 5th Symphony of Beethoven and keep it that way, your companion having no way to refute your version.

Taken into consideration the 5th Symphony continues to exist, yes, it retains the name as such, maybe part of the original structure, but it has stopped being the same object to which we referred to it in the past, it is a different version as our memory can betray us even with little details, some may argue this and I won't argue back but without physical proof of what you speak this is your own version and therefor we shall know your version as the correct and only version of the 5th Symphony.

This is, in a way, how history works, with little proofs as to what transpired in the past the need for speculation is a most, coalescing the proofs sometimes renders vague ideas of a specific matter even though the bigger spectrum is available to us. The 5th Symphony would be a good example of how sometimes an object that may seem insignificant to the vast majority or of little importance to the scientific community may be key to understanding whatever surrounded it in a specific location and time.

The eventual conflict with this is that we can never achieve truth in its purest form, it is one version of the truth, our version of the truth, no one holds the truth.

Eres lo que comes

Pobre liberales, si supieran que los conservadores nos mantienen vivos hoy en día muchos ya hubieran revivido, aunque sea en cenizas, para continuar su eterna lucha sin fin.