Tribes and Bridges

I don’t have many triggers, and I’m rarely offended. Scratch that: I have many triggers and I’m constantly offended. But, I have realized that these triggers all come from the same type of offense: tribal mentality.

The "me vs them" philosophy where every group is on an island and because they are not with us, they are against us. It exasperates me to no end when a black-or-white way of thinking forces people into rounding up or down their own ideology to whatever fits into their overly simplistic, divisive nature.

A prime example, and the reason I’m writing this now, is the US election. Now that it is over, a half of their population is befuddled while the other is celebrating.

I’ll try to make sense of both sides, and to do this I’d like you to meet David Wong. He, among other things, is the executive editor for Cracked. I normally don’t care much for the website outside of its humor, but two of his pieces really caught my eye. Especially since he presents the case for both sides, beautifully. He’s definitely in my "favorite authors” list just for this.

So let’s begin. I’ll start with the left’s side: socially liberal, economy federally-controlling,, progressive, etc. As of this writing, the left is bordering on depression, thinking “I thought we were better than this.” Its main problem towards Trump is he’s bigoted, racist, sexist, xenophobic, homophobic, etc.

David has made their case quite clearly of why racism and discrimination in general is still a thing, even having elected a black president and legalizing same-sex marriage. Yes, a white heterosexual male may not have ever discriminated against a black person, may never have diminished the opinion of a female or treated her as anything else than a human being, and may have never thought less or treated badly anybody based on their sexuality. Why is he still labeled as being privileged?

Because, as David points out, we can’t consider ourselves as just a group of individuals living in the present. We are a community that interacts with one another, and the reason that I’m here, writing this, in the present, is because of all the persons that have come before me. Yes, I don’t own a slave. Yes, I treat my wife with the utmost respect and with the love she deserves. Yes, I don’t discriminate. That doesn’t mean that I’m not reaping the rewards of the hideous things my ancestors have done to get me where I am right now.

If I walk down the street at night, I do feel fear of what could happen to me. But that’s nothing in comparison to what a woman feels in those circumstances. My fear is based on being mugged. Her fear is based on being raped. Big. Fucking. Difference.

The reason why I have the wonderful job that I have right now is, in great part, for the hard work that I’ve done over the years. Work that was of better quality than others and, thus, I could say that I earned this job through my own merits. But, another great part of the reason I got it is because I was fortunate enough to have parents that supported me financially to get the education I needed to let my hard work flourish. And my parents were fortunate enough to have parents that sacrificed themselves to provide a better life than they had. I stand in the shoulder of giants; I’m part of the history that is currently unfolding. To believe that I’ve done everything on my own and that I owe nothing to anybody, is being oblivious to reality. To this effect, to think that I’m not privileged over somebody because I have it the same as them because of equality of opportunity is the same as thinking that I was born out of nothing. There’s precedence; none of us have it the same.

However, there has been a misunderstanding when this point comes up: “being blamed for something” is very different as “being responsible to fix it”. Yes, I did not provoke the dreadful economic circumstances, as well as the social conflicts, that resulted in the social-economic differences between ethnicities and genders. Yes, I cannot be blamed for the sins of my forefathers. But, we are a group, and we are ALL responsible to fix this, including me. And since I am in a position of privilege, like it or not, I have more power to do something about it.

So, yeah, racism, sexism, homophobia, and their respective discrimination are still there. They may be there at a much lesser degree than centuries ago, than decades ago, but they are still there, and something must be done about it: if you know somebody doesn’t like an specific word, avoid it in their presence, but also talk about why is that word offensive; if you know women don’t feel safe in an environment, get in there and see what you can do to make it feel safer; if you see a person being left out of a group gathering, go talk to that person. Things like these may produce better circumstances for the person that are going to stand in our shoulders.

[Take a breath.]

Ok... time for the right’s side: social and fiscal conservative, market-dependent economy, etc. Right now they’re celebrating, but how? What is it that turned them on to that creep?

David made their case in another piece. Lets get something out of the way first: I am in no way condoning the words and feelings that Trump has stated; and in no way am I saying that people that agree with him in those terms do not exist. They do, unfortunately, and it’s sickening. The reports these past few days of the repulsive things carried out by that fraction of the population that has now decided to come out of their racist, xenophobic closet have been nothing short of horrifying.

However, it is arguably similar to how to some members of the black community reacted towards white folks when Obama was elected: “Now you sit in the back of the bus”, “Guess what cracker? I can kill you and nobody can stop me”, etc. The defense back then is the same as now: yes, these people do exist and they do this because of they live in their own fucked-up version of the world, but this was not the reason why the majority voted for him. In fact, many of the defenses I’ve heard from Trump supporters have been mostly in disagreement of his offenses, but that they’re willing to overlook them in the face of what he symbolizes for them: an outsider.

In this moment I want to remind you of what I mentioned in the left’s side of the argument: it is up to ALL of us to fix this. What is there to fix in this mostly white mentality? That, right there: being white is normally considered being privileged, however, in all of my leftist argument I never mentioned that I was privileged for being white. I’m Mexican, I’m brown as fuck. But I’m privileged in relation to others in my country. The mentality that just because somebody is white they can be automatically labeled as privileged, is just as ignorant as not acknowledging one’s own privilege.

Privilege is a complex thing. Yes, race has a lot to do with it (specially in the USA), but it also depends on where you live, who your parents were and how they were economically, access to healthcare and education, social stigmas, etc. Rounding it down to just “being white” is by definition being racist.

Many of the persons that voted for Trump live in small rural towns that are normally ignored by left-leaning governments. And when I say “ignored”, I mean given the economical middle finger... repeatedly. Manufacturing jobs are the soul of their economy, which are shipped internationally without hesitation by progressives. And, worse yet, these jobs are of companies controlled by corporations which, in turn, lobby the hell out of the government. When this is done time and time again, from both sides of the aisle, it presents a picture of the established government as not caring about them at all.

But here comes Trump, a person that presumes to not have those ties. “He doesn’t have any political experience” is a selling point. “Y’all can go fuck yourselves and shove your political correctness up your ass” is a battle cry. He gave them the opportunity for them to point out to the left their own hypocrisy: a group of people that has been tortured by censorship is now censoring people. When the left has this list of words we can’t say, I can’t help feel reminded of George Carlin's “10 words you can’t say on the radio” bit which ridiculed the right for doing exactly the same thing.

However, saying things out of comic relief, and actually meaning them is two very different things. To this effect, I turn to what David Wong wrote, since I can’t put it better myself:

"But Trump is objectively a piece of shit!" you say. "He insults people, he objectifies women, and cheats whenever possible! And he's not an everyman; he's a smarmy, arrogant billionaire!” Wait, are you talking about Donald Trump or Tony Stark?"

David goes on with the analogy with Dr. House and Walter White. Yes, they’re fictitious, but his point is still correct. An asshole is less of an asshole if he’s on my side… if he’s on my tribe. Hell, bring in the real-life left-leaning millionaire talk show hosts that are really offensive to the right (bashing on religion, fat-shaming conservative politicians, calling Sarah Palin a bitch, etc.), but the left doesn’t care: they are hitmen doing wet work for their side. A clear example that comes to mind is Bill Maher: he reeks of islamophobia but he still has a job (even after his 9/11 debacle) because his followers choose to ignore that about him. Or, as Wong remind me, David Letterman’s sex scandals: I love the guy and I had completely forgotten about them. Why? Because I agree with him politically. In fact, I remember pretty clearly the left rolling their eyes every time “Lewinsky” was uttered during the Clinton years. I rolled my eyes with them because in that moment I mostly cared that he was taking the US in what I thought was the right path for both the US and Mexico (big selling point for me).

So that is what Trump is for these rural white Americans: a savior in dire economic circumstances, packaged in an orange bigoted box with a sexist bow. But mainly, they have labelled him as their savior, because (to paraphrase David Wong) they believe: he doesn’t care about the rules, he is the one who will get shit done.

[I hope you’re all still with me.]

Blanket labelling all the persons that voted for Trump as racist and sexist is being as discriminatory and ignorant as a person that does not acknowledge their own privilege. The left has repeatedly asked the right to understand their plight, to walk a mile in their shoes, and understand the hurt and emotional turmoil history has brought upon them. Its time for the left to teach by example.

This is not a black-and-white world. Rounding up or down is too simplistic for a species that came out of the caves millennia ago. We have no need for tribes anymore. We are not our own enemy. To be tolerant of intolerance is the first step in getting rid of it because it forms the foundation of the bridges between our islands.

Be the better human being and reach out for understanding even if its difficult. Be a better human being. Be like David Wong… (hahaha, sorry, couldn’t help myself).

PS. Thanks to Cin Ceja for posting one of David Wong's articles on her feed. I hadn’t read him until now, and it was the seed for this entire post.

Sorrynotsorry

It’s been a while, I know. This type of absence is perfect evidence of the turmoil that has become my mind since last we spoke. But, frankly, I don’t want you to think I’m apologizing, I’m just acknowledging, and that’s a damn good first step.

I’m even struggling to write something right now, even though I do this all the time for work. And this struggle is unfortunate, since: first, it is rooted in me not wanting to fall in the typical, cliché blog post about anxiety; and, second, I’m still caring about your opinion, a typical, cliché collateral feeling of anxiety. Meaning that I’m still not there yet, and I’m beginning to feel that I never will.

Don’t get me wrong, this is not a post about me putting up a white flag and surrendering. This is not me giving up on getting better. On the contrary, this is me realizing something that I enjoy seeing somebody else realizing in literary fiction and have always thought of not needing to realize it myself: the concept of peace.

I’m not talking about the fantasy concept of peace that aims to have everything rosy and fine (ugh, how I loathe that word) between two enemies "just because". I’m talking about the realistic concept of peace in which both enemies approach each other and, even though they disagree with each other, have come to terms with the fact that they need each other to survive, so they might as well share the world in peace. They have come to realize that the destruction of one, is the destruction of both.

Anxiety, for me, is a monster that is lurking under my bed, whispering endless thoughts of self-disappointment, what-could-have-been’s, and what-can-happen’s. It’s despicable, disgusting, and tempting to destroy.

But... I can’t live without it. I couldn’t have lived without it. Those thoughts come with a sensational collateral plus: they make me better at what I do. The what-could-have-been’s are lessons to be learned; the what-can-happen’s are plans to be carried out and designed to avoid future what-could-have-been’s; and self-disappointment is a good incentive for avoiding them.

I want peace with it, the realistic one. I want to reach down under my bed and offer it cake, because we need each other to survive, so we might as well share it in the process. And I know this is a long haul; I’m not here stating that I’m okay. I’m here saying that I may never be and that I’m starting to be okay with that. That monster is me and it wants to be loved as much as I do. To want to destroy it is to want to destroy me. To avoid having those thoughts or feeling down when I do have them, is like I’m apologizing to myself for being me.

I’m not here to apologize to myself for what I am, I’m just acknowledging myself, and that’s a damn good first step.

An Absent Word

There was a time when I relished these kinds of moments. Serene earthquakes, discolored skies, unfinished waterfalls. Staggered, tired, calm. There was always this other word that accompanied the mentioned; not this time, though. A word that made all the difference, and indicated the end and start of a new era of my life.

However, the absence of this word comes with a bittersweet sentiment. As if it were the collateral damage of a teared-down, century-old, mob house; I'm glad is gone, but, alas, the memories and, well, the damage is still damage.

This era doesn't have an expected end apparently, and I'm still not at peace of not knowing what that means in the long run. In the short, I'm obviously thrilled, like I always am (was?). Life, my life, it seems, is now a marathon, not a collection of sprints as it was at first. I now throttle, not run; big change for a man who changed his surroundings more times than he'd like to admit in less than a decade (as I finished writing this sentence, I found myself grinning from the fact that I used the word "man", without realizing, to describe me; big change indeed). This is the bitter part.

And it's fine, as much as I hate its indifferent connotations. I suppose that there comes a time in which the intensity of one's life should be degraded to a reward of accomplishments, instead of the whole of its drive. It's like a drug that helps you live better by making you feel better; it's dangerous when it becomes the end instead of the mean. Transcending that requirement of intensity signifies good judgement and, hell, a better person. This is the sweet part.

So, with that in mind, I forgo my thrive and drive, and I'll try to never be satisfied. Because, even though it does feel good to signal an era with the feeling of satisfaction, it also implies the feeling of abandonement of that era's pursuit. As a kid in a candy warehouse, jumping from one hall to the next, I never have actually felt "finished", even though that's the feeling I'm pursuing; as if it were the end of the mean.

It was a good feeling, though, feeling satisfied; alas, the memories. However, the damage is still damage, and the marathon I've been unknowingly running is catching up with me. I better start learning how to throttle.

My Erdős Number

EDIT (2023-12-31): A decade into my academic career, my Erdős Number is even smaller now.

EDIT (2014-01-08): It appears as though my Erdős Number is smaller than I first thought. Thanks Barry (my PhD supervisor) for your vanity.

Paul Erdős was a very prolific mathematician, and, although technically homeless, he lived with his collaborators, with his famous initial greeting "my mind is open", during their work together. When finished, he moved to the house of another collaborator. He thought of mathematical research as a social event.

As a type of homage, with some admitted humility from Erdős himself, friends of his gave themselves an "Erdős Number" that measured the "collaborative distance" from him. Erdős has the number 0 (and the only that has it), people that have co-authored with him have the number 1, co-authors of co-authors of Erdoős have the number 2, and so on. There's more information in the Wikipedia article on Erdős Number.

In any case, apparently I have one. In the following list of publications, the numbers in brackets are the author's corresponding Erdős number:

Aharoni, R.[1]; Erdős, P.[0]; Linial, N.; Optima of dual integer linear programs. Comb. 8(1): 13-20 (1988).

Aharoni, R.[1]; Herman, G.[2]; Kuba, A.; Binary vectors partially determined by linear equation systems. Discrete Mathematics. 171(1-3): 1-16 (1997).

Ceja, C.; Rascon, C.[3]; Garduño, E.; Carvalho, B; Herman, G.[2]; Smooth normals with blobs for surfaces from 3D binary images. Topology Proceedings. 61(2023): 239-267 (2022).

So, my Paul Erdős number is now 3. I think this the best I'll do; quite well though.

---

EDIT (2023-12-31): A decade before, a decade after. Two jumps. Not bad.

Borosh, I.; Chui, Charles K.[1]; Erdős, P. [0];, On changes of signs in infinite series. (Russian summary), Anal. Math. 4 (1978), no. 1, 3–12.

Chen, Guang Rong[1]; Chui, Charles K.[2], Design of near-optimal linear digital tracking filters with colored input., J. Comput. Appl. Math. 15 (1986), no. 3, 353–370.

Guan, Zhi-Hong; Chan, C. W.; Leung, Andrew Y. T.[3]; Chen, Guan Rong[2], Robust stabilization of singular-impulsive-delayed systems with nonlinear perturbations. (English summary), IEEE Trans. Circuits Systems I Fund. Theory Appl. 48 (2001), no. 8, 1011–1019.

Wang, X., Lennox, B.[4], Goulding, P.R. and Leung, Andrew Y.T.[3], (2000), ‘Practical application of principal component analysis’, Proceedings of the Chinese Control Conference, Honk Kong University, 595-599

Rascon, C. [5]; Lennox, B. [4]; Marjanovic, O. Recovering Independent Components from Shifted Data using FastICA and Swarm Intelligence. Applied Spectroscopy 63(10), Oct. 2009.

So, my Paul Erdős number is 5. Better.

---

EDIT (2014-01-14): Yet another way to get to the same number.

Alon, Noga[1]; Erdős, P[0]. An application of graph theory to additive number theory. European J. Combin. 6 (1985), no. 3, 201–203.

Alon, Noga[1]; Bradford, Phillip G.; Fleischer, Rudolf[2]. Matching nuts and bolts faster. Inform. Process. Lett. 59 (1996), no. 3, 123–127.

Fleischer, Rudolf[2]; Koga, Hisashi[3]. Balanced scheduling toward loss-free packet queueing and delay fairness. Twelfth Annual International Symposium of Algorithms and Computation. Algorithmica 38 (2004), no. 2, 363–376.

Fuentes, Gibran[4]; Koga, Hisashi[3]; Watanabe, Toshinori. Unsupervised Object Discovery from Images by Mining Local Features Using Hashing. Progress in Pattern Recognition, Image Analysis, Computer Vision, and Applications Lecture Notes in Computer Science Volume 5856, 2009, pp 978-985.

Pineda, Luis; Salinas, Lisset; Meza, Ivan; Rascon, Caleb[5]; Fuentes, Gibran[4]. SitLog: A Programming Language for Service Robot Tasks. International Journal of Advanced Robotic Systems, 2013, 10:538.

---

OLD LIST

Erdős, P. [0]; Gerencsér, L.[1]; Máté, A. Problems of graph theory concerning optimal design. Combinatorial theory and its applications, I (Proc. Colloq., Balatonfüred, 1969), pp. 317–325. North-Holland, Amsterdam, 1970.

Gerencsér, László [1]; Rissanen, Jorma [2] Asymptotics of predictive stochastic complexity. New directions in time series analysis, Part II, 93–112, IMA Vol. Math. Appl., 46, Springer, New York, 1993.

Rissanen, J. [2]; Ljung, L. [3] Estimation of optimum structures and parameters for linear systems. Mathematical systems theory (Proc. Internat. Sympos., Internat. Centre Mech. Sci., Udine, 1975), pp. 92–110. Lecture Notes in Econom. and Math. Systems, 131. Springer, Berlin, 1976.

Hagenblad, Anna; Ljung, Lennart [3]; Wills, Adrian [4] Maximum likelihood identification of Wiener models. Automatica J. IFAC 44 (2008), no. 11, 2697–2705.

Heath, W. P. [5]; Wills, A. G. [4] Design of a cross-directional controllers with optimal steady state performance. Eur. J. Control 10 (2004), no. 1, 15–29.

Li, G.; Heath, W. P. [5]; Lennox, B. [6] Concise stability conditions for systems with static nonlinear feedback expressed by a quadratic program. IET Control Theory Appl. 2 (2008), no. 7, 554–563.

Rascon, C. [7]; Lennox, B. [6]; Marjanovic, O. Recovering Independent Components from Shifted Data using FastICA and Swarm Intelligence. Applied Spectroscopy 63(10), Oct. 2009.

So, my Paul Erdős number is 7. Not bad, I suppose.

Safe

I've been longing for the ableness of yester. I've been somewhat successful with the reinvention I've put myself into early this year. I feel focused, and, for once, I'm listening to my needs and my wants. More importantly, I've come to be in peace with the fact that in many cases the former will not be the same as the latter, but has a higher priority.

However, I stand here, as always, doubtful. I've realized that the inclination with which I've grown (or want to have grown) feels... how can I put this?

I had a good description of it a minute ago, I swear.

Darn! I just had it.

I'm looking at my still hands at the keyboard, grinning, unable of thinking of another word other than boring.

I know what you're thinking, and I concur. This is where I need to be, and in the most part, I want to be. I have a good job, a challenging job (the concept "boring" is far, far from its description). I've endured test after test, where I have been learning, even sometimes to the point of requiring time off from it, which, may I add, I've learned to administer well. I've made progress academically, and the people around me have noticed it. My love relationship has grown beautifully, to the point that we're taking the next step in it, and it is coming forth very organically, swiftly, as I've always wanted a relationship to be like. I've also been building friendships, slowly, but surely, and I've lighten up their darkness as their shine have brighten mine.

Basically, I've learned, nay, I now know that Rome wasn't built in a day, and that it was burnt in less than one. I am being weary of that, and this past year, as you've read/seen, is evidence of it. Ironically, I think that has been the source of my boredom.

I've been too careful. Too safe. Too many baby steps. Too few risks. And, even though there has been progress, it has been too little. I'd love to say that this is me being the ambitious guy I want to be, but, frankly, I'm just not sure. Maybe this was what I needed this year, feeling safe and all. I must admit though, it feels good. It's just that I didn't expect any collateral damages. How ironic: it seems as though being safe has it risks. Doing nothing can also hurt, it's just a pain that crawls up on you softly and stings every time you look back.

So, boredom, our next foe. I hope that Periquín Plumero was right:

Todo lo que emprendas hazlo sin prisa, pero sin pausa.

Everything that you undertake do it without hurry, but without pause.

Periquín Plumero, from Cri-Crí, a children radio character.

I just need to share this.

HOW TO BE ALONE
by Tanya Davis

If you are at first lonely, be patient. If you've not been alone much, or if when you were, you weren't okay with it, then just wait. You'll find it's fine to be alone once you're embracing it.

We could start with the acceptable places, the bathroom, the coffee shop, the library. Where you can stall and read the paper, where you can get your caffeine fix and sit and stay there. Where you can browse the stacks and smell the books. You're not supposed to talk much anyway so it's safe there.

There's also the gym. If you're shy you could hang out with yourself in mirrors, you could put headphones in.

And there's public transportation, because we all gotta go places.

And there's prayer and meditation. No one will think less if you're hanging with your breath seeking peace and salvation.

Start simple. Things you may have previously based on your avoid-being-alone principals.

The lunch counter. Where you will be surrounded by chow-downers. Employees who only have an hour and their spouses work across town and so they -- like you -- will be alone.

Resist the urge to hang out with your cell phone.

When you are comfortable with eat lunch and run, take yourself out for dinner. A restaurant with linen and silverware. You're no less intriguing a person when you're eating solo dessert to cleaning the whipped cream from the dish with your finger. In fact some people at full tables will wish they were where you were.

Go to the movies. Where it is dark and soothing. Alone in your seat amidst a fleeting community.

And then, take yourself out dancing to a club where no one knows you. Stand on the outside of the floor till the lights convince you more and more and the music shows you. Dance like no one's watching...because, they're probably not. And, if they are, assume it is with best of human intentions. The way bodies move genuinely to beats is, after all, gorgeous and affecting. Dance until you're sweating, and beads of perspiration remind you of life's best things, down your back like a brook of blessings.

Go to the woods alone, and the trees and squirrels will watch for you.

Go to an unfamiliar city, roam the streets, there're always statues to talk to and benches made for sitting give strangers a shared existence if only for a minute and these moments can be so uplifting and the conversations you get in by sitting alone on benches might've never happened had you not been there by yourself.

Society is afraid of alonedom, like lonely hearts are wasting away in basements, like people must have problems if, after a while, nobody is dating them. but lonely is a freedom that breaths easy and weightless and lonely is healing if you make it.

You could stand, swathed by groups and mobs or hold hands with your partner, look both further and farther for the endless quest for company. But no one's in your head and by the time you translate your thoughts, some essence of them may be lost or perhaps it is just kept.

Perhaps in the interest of loving oneself, perhaps all those sappy slogans from preschool over to high school's groaning were tokens for holding the lonely at bay. Cuz if you're happy in your head than solitude is blessed and alone is okay.

It's okay if no one believes like you. All experience is unique, no one has the same synapses, can't think like you, for this be releived, keeps things interesting life's magic things in reach.

And it doesn't mean you're not connected, that communitie's not present, just take the perspective you get from being one person in one head and feel the effects of it. take silence and respect it. if you have an art that needs a practice, stop neglecting it. if your family doesn't get you, or religious sect is not meant for you, don't obsess about it.

You could be in an instant surrounded if you needed it.

If your heart is bleeding make the best of it.

There is heat in freezing, be a testament.

EDIT (2010-08-23): The creator of the posted video was interviewed a while ago. The interviewer (Simon Owens, who I appreciate making it known to me) had a beautiful sentiment on the matter:

I guess it’s worth noting the irony that someone who created a video called “How To Be Alone” would derive such pleasure from the human positive feedback that resulted from posting said video. But perhaps the poem even predicted this seeming contradiction [in its second-to-last paragraph].

Spot on.

Rhythm, Rhyme, and Reason

The night filled the moment as I pondered when and how was I going to sleep.

The way they moved inside me, penetrating the intestines of my discontent, breached the wall that I myself had built. I am no one, this is no one, and, by the time this is finished, none of you will be there anymore. Just me and this.

To think, to wonder, thing of ponder. Words used for melodramatic obsolete purposes. I can't remember a time when doing this brought pleasure. And I can't remember why I even began to do this. Exercise maybe. To show off possibly. Or maybe just to confirm that I can still do it. Unorganized, thoughtless, without technique... like always.

This writing, like my life, was supposed to be a poem, but it grew into prose. And I miss it so; the connection between rhythm, rhyme, and reason. A true challenge, even more so for the fact that it shouldn't feel like one. If so, the lines suffer from unwarranted tension; although, sometimes they feed from it. Of the ones I've pulled off, some certainly did, but I didn't begrudge. They were my children: one of the few things in my past life that were truly genuine. Honesty swept from my fingers, while I struggled to not think, to not feel, to just write. Like now.

I've tried to revive it, but it is of no use. Poetry in verse is a melancholic blind spot, easily drawn into a corny soap opera, in which mediocrity oozes, sucking the life out of the paper. It ends up lacking character, a definition... it ends up lacking balls:

Dirty sweat and muscles tightening.
I tear the skin off her.
The meat, the sour, the scream,
all steer my strength to sunder.

But it's useless, as those four lines equate a lifetime of exasperation with my own self. Those lines were tiresome, heartening, and just plain vicious, in both message and technique. They do no favor in disguising the writer's inner struggle between wanting to be a good poet and wanting to be an honest writer. It may have balls, but the sweetness underneath was kept aside, forced into submission, all for the sake of saving an ego-driven face:

The weak pull from you,
steal your tears,
but you keep on,
drowning in your own sweat.
Blast through the traps with no fear,
Just don't forget,
those lines hooked and set
were pulled by your own self, dear.
But, no worries, no shroud.
Step in, forget the cloud.
Quivering in expectation,
I await your blunder.
A slip, a fall, a stumbler.
The oh sweet sound
of another one tripping in.
Go on, another round,
why maybe, who knows?
Lucky you might go again.

It's near, but not for long, like it's saying goodbye, but I don't want to wave back. It can hold so much meaning, the simplicity in its own can be enough to explain whole essays, yet I've never learned how to grasp it adequately. Like a magic sword with no owner, a threefold stool that doesn't seem to hold any weight, or a symbol that only God understands: it's powerful but untamable. Character, beauty, and meaning; rhythm, rhyme, and reason...

My fingertips are growing numb
as the sentiment of a known past is yonder.
Canned in the outer wrapping
it peels off, steadily,
to a brisk powder.
I wait, hastily, asleep
in a dream that seems no different in splendor.
Stopped, I awake absent of it,
but feeling just the same.
It has flown away from me,
as if it were never mine.
My fingertips feel warm,
they dance now to a different time.
Different style,
but same thoughts,
same grunts.
It slips, "let go."
Today's different,
"I'm through.
You don't need me anymore,
you haven't since long ago."

A memory of solitude, of warmth in time of cold, teachings of how to hold on while letting go. Irony, it seems, it's immune to style, and letting go seems as appropriate as ever. The cloud is still there, and, even though I'm left with only one tool to walk through it, it is the one I forged. With it, I'll ride through the myst that is called life, and breath it through the new lungs I've been using all along.

Verse, I hardly knew ye, and I hardly think that will be a problem.

(Untitled)

The rage in pudding, the guacamole of sorrow, and the solidarity in masturbation. I grew up with these afflictions and virtues, and I feel their disconnection. A disconnection I've long forgotten.

It's been a while, and, such a short time has passed, I don't feel the change anymore. I could say that the change has been the only constant, and, thus, I've grown accustomed to it such that I don't feel it anymore. Like a burning sun after the fifth hour: the burn is there, but somehow it isn't anymore, as the skin absorbs it, and you become the burn.

Or I could say that there isn't a change, and that I've peaked to whatever being my sub-conscious has decided to flourish into. This alternative appears as the most satisfying, but you and I know this isn't the case. I've seen myself after all these years, and I know the incessant change has only altered the way I look at the world, but not who I am, indicating that the change hasn't even begun. This may seem as a paradox, as I still don't know who I am, but, alas, I feel the same. If symbolic logic has taught me anything, is that you don't need to know the value of something to know that it hasn't changed, just the differential from one point to another.

This year, the differential seems null. The same pudding, the same guacamole, the same solidarity. And I ache for some change, some improvement, some sort of evidence that here lies a less egotistic being that acts more upon his written words. The struggle has been evident, however, and the fire and the sun and the moon have witnessed it. Have they? Darn, I'm not sure. Cold blood serving beside a table of witchcraft still lingers; the scratches still appear, and the weary stillness of my stare towards the sky still account for it. That's my struggle, and it's still there... is it?

Maybe I've been looking at this all wrong. Maybe the wall that I'm pushing has been altering itself. Maybe that's the change that's been happening: I'm the same, but the struggle is different, and my old tactics aren't working against this new enemy. New bullets need to be fired towards new targets. New abilities need to be learned. New ways of changing, new alternations for a new oblivion.

... Thus, I need to reboot. I need to start over. Clean slate, empty mind, a bowl and nothing more. And then, reabsorb, refill, look at things anew, and re-comprehend their meaning.

I'm too full, too big, too fat with self-contradicting truths: I need to find myself amidst these weeds of ego-filling pseudo-knowledge. Throw myself from a hill, let myself loose pieces of myself and look at me downstream. Symbolic logic has done all it can, now its time to open up the variable and find out what's in there. The fact of the matter is I've been teasing myself of what lies inside, trying to remember from pieces of memory of what's locked in there. In reality I honestly can't remember what I've been repressing all these years, only the legend-like remembrance of it being "bad".

All this bullshit that I've grown fat from has served as the wall of a prison of myself... My God, that's the same wall I've been fighting! The outer has turned inner, and I've been too scared to look at the other side of the wall. The change has occurred, but in a part I haven't been looking at. Yes, I've been definitely looking at this all wrong.

It's time then... the pudding, the guacamole, and the solidarity are going to see themselves in the mirror. Strangely, a feeling of familiarity is present, as if I've done this before. Yet, as whenever uncertainty points to a misty road ahead, I can't help feel frightened of where I'll end up, of what lies buried beneath my fattening presumptuousness and delusions of grandeur.

Logic implies that I should be frightened of finding a deep sense of evil, but such definition actually calms me. "Evil" is misunderstood, and by comprehending it, it can be salvaged. Another possibility is that "ego" winds up being my fuel, but that just would mean that the locked up enemy was the one that I've been battling all along: the misty road would end up where I am right now. No, what I'm frightened of the most is that I find nothing there: I don't know what to do with that. What would that mean? How would I go about after that?

...

I'm grinning right now, because I realized that I've been so foolish. Of course I know what to do with that: fill it up, exactly as I was preparing to do a couple of paragraphs ago. The mean becomes the end. By preparing to tear down the wall, I would be tearing down the wall. I get it now.

While staring at the keyboard, I can't feel anything, and for the first time I'm actually content with that. That's why my sub-conscious chose "Nihil" as the title for my blog and my electronic children. It was right there all along. I am nothing, and I haven't done anything about it since ever. But, should I? There's a part of me that wants to enjoy this as it is, and another that wants to begin filling it up... I'm grinning again:

Fuck it: I'll do both. It's a misty road after all, I haven't travelled it yet, why not embrace its uncertainty? Why define what can and can't be done so early?

It's time to look at things with wonder again, to relearn things I supposedly know, to fuck up where I've fucked up before, and to let myself enjoy it this time around.

I am nothing and nothing am I
~><~

Away

The word "away" sounds like such as a smooth, calm word. "Ah waayy", like a wave humming, mesmerized by its own beauty. Its connotation, however, is very passive aggressive. It implies absence of something, not from existence though, just from where it belongs. Surprisingly, and, ironically, it's full of hope: that 'something' is in fact somewhere, it just isn't where it is supposed to.

In fact, you could say that, all in all, the word "away" is a largely positive sentiment. If something is "away", it belongs somewhere, and in that "somewhere" its absence is being noticed, usually by the entity that is saying the word. "Being away" is beautifully bittersweet; there's hope in there of not only someday coming "back", but of having a place to come back to.

Lately, "being away" is mostly what I've been feeling, but I don't know from where anymore. I used to say it was from my hometown, but I'm not sure that it is still my home. In fact, the whole concept of "home" seems like just a vague pleasant memory. Now, it feels more like a base station, where I report to periodically of my apparently unending endeavors. It is this that seems the most sad, of being away, but without its sweet side.

I used to crave this feeling, of being a free vessel; no map, no direction, just wonders and notes. But I am a man of discord and contradiction, as, I suppose, most humans are. Everything comes with two slates, it seems, and for some reason, I haven't been able to let myself see the bitter one in many of them. And, I suppose, this is probably the reason of my recent slight agoraphobic behavior. I want my space, my land, my indestructible castle. Yes, I want to feel the sensation of home again, but I know it comes with a bitter side to it. No more free vessel, with a map and direction, always; coincidentally, that has always been my modus operandi. I wonder if, without knowing, I've been trying to pursue a weird combination of both? To be at home, wherever I may be. I've had plenty of practice, that's for sure, but this "away" feeling is new. Maybe this is me trying to settle down; what a weird way to do it... and I wouldn't have done it differently.

If that's the case, then, like when in love, I'll just have to wait and keep my eyes open. Maybe there is a place I am coming back to, it just hasn't presented itself yet.

Title

My examiner told me to come in the room, the verdict of my PhD oral examination was up. I remember clearly how I entered that room as a puny student who felt the exam as the worst colonoscopy ever, with a clear indication of a non-pass. "We've decided to grant you the award, with some minor corrections of course," he said with a smile on his face.

I froze. The examiner, befuddled, grabbed my hand to shake it, "You're a Doctor, son. You seem disappointed." And I was. I stepped out of that room, and one of my professors, who I saw as a superior in every single way (and still do), asked how it went. When I told him, he stretched his hands in what he saw to be a level-playing field. But it isn't.

Now, everybody is calling me "Doctor", as if my knowledge in the field has suddenly sky-rocketed. It hasn't. I'm still that puny student with a bleeding anus. Only now, I can legally put a title before my name.

The concept of titles has always eluded me. It seems as the precursor of a black and white world where I am this and you are that, and there's nothing in between.

I am a heterosexual, and you are a homosexual.
I am a capitalist, you are a communist.
I am a Professor, you are a student.
I am a christian, you are a muslim.
I am right, you are wrong.

I know it's useful in certain situations: you are a man that needs a liver transplant, and your blood is type A+. Period.

But it's limiting in all other cases. My identity is an array of shades of grey, which is in fact the reason of the infinity of possibilities that makes up my personality. This is me, and there's no one like me.

• I'm very against the involvement of government in my day-to-day life (taxes, laws, the democratic process), but I believe that it must also ensure some sort of well-being to its citizens (national security, health care options).
• I prefer women, but if the right guy came along, I would consider him as a life partner.
• I enjoy watching pornography (which many consider misogynistic), and, what from female friends have told me, I'm way too in touch with my feminine side.
• I'm very anti-religion, but I've seen the good it can do in people.
• Some consider me an expert in some fields, but I don't enjoy reading about them.

Is there a title for that?

It always seems to be a personality that has been forced-upon when using a title. And, unfortunately, that personality usually implies prejudice upon other titled people. But, if you took the title away from something and really look at it, is it really the same thing as the title it was given?

• I've heard many christians say that the Bible says that homosexuals are going to Hell, but they have nothing against their homosexual friends.
• I've known of many capitalists denouncing communism (equating it to fascism and nazism), but want their government to provide all the solutions to their problems like Healthcare and Education.
• Everybody hates that person called "boss", but wishes to be one.
• The main argument of the proponents of making gay marriage illegal was that the word "marriage" applied only between a man and a woman. Most if not all of them didn't have any problems of providing the same rights to gay couples as if they were married, just didn't want to call them "married". The more surprising thing was that gays wanted to be called "married"; it was their right, apparently.
• The Health Care reform currently in everybody's mind in the USA was delayed because the Democratic Party wanted to spend time in rebranding it to something else that wasn't called a "Public Option". It sounded like it came from Canada, and who wants that?
• Israeli officials wanted to change the lay-man title of the "Swine Flu", because it wasn't kosher, to "Mexican Flu".

It's as if the problem is not the root issue of a cause, but the way the problem is called. Even the branding of "bad words" as taboo, when looked up closely, seems completely stupid.

As always, Georgy puts it best:

I think the whole reason we're encouraged in this country to think of ourselves as "black and white" (instead of "pink and brown," which is what we are) is that black and white are complete opposites that cannot be reconciled. Black and white can never come together. Pink and brown, on the other hand, might just stand a chance of being blended, might just come together.

If we took the time to go beyond the title, into the actual nitty gritty of our selves, we would be surprised that we are closer to each other than we thought. That the rounding errors of the black and white in this world are actually quite big, and that, even though we are all different, we are also pretty similar.

Laconic Writing

When revising my thesis and articles (which I promise I'll begin doing promptly), a constant observation made by my supervisor is that I say too little with too many words. At first I thought it was just a conflict of style, and, coming from the side of storytelling, I enjoyed reading my academic writings as they were, so I didn't do much about it.

However, I just presented my fourth, and hopefully last draft of my thesis, and the same observation has come back. Other people have expressed the same opinion about my work as well: "The idea is very interesting, it's just too long-winded."

I'm worried about my storytelling antics in the academic side. My intention is for the reader to understand my work, and, thus, I reiterate, while trying to tell a story, to make the topic more comprehensible. However, I've uncovered something hidden behind this excuse. Bare with me while I digress...

Spartans were revered for their militaristic style of life, which was based on three virtues: equality, military fitness and austerity. They lived in minimalist settings, and their sentiments were expressed in the bare minimum of words. In fact, they were famous for their Laconic wit, and many philosophers, including Socrates, rejected the popular idea of the dumb Spartan: "[...] if you talk to any ordinary Spartan, he seems to be stupid, but eventually, like some expert marksman, he shoots in some brief remark that proves you to be only a child."

A good example of this is when Philip II threaten to invade Sparta. He stated "If I enter Laconia, I will level Sparta to the ground," to which the Spartans replied, "If." Another example is the beautiful comeback of Lycurgus, an important Spartan lawgiver, to a proposal to set up a democracy in Sparta: "Begin with your own family."

The more I've read about them, the more I've understood the beauty of austerity. Done properly, a bare minimum of words in a statement implies security, while being poetic. I envy them now, because I've realised that an important reason for the length of my writings is because of the use of vague statements like "I feel", "the majority of", "it is implied that", etc. that reek of insecurity.

I've talked to my supervisor about this, and it isn't really about the length of the text. In fact, oversimplification is dangerous, and there are topics that need lengthy explanations to be understood. What austerity is really about is making sure that every word in the text needs to be there: when the Samians went to ask the Spartans for their help, they did so with a long speech, to which the Spartans replied that they've forgotten the first half of the speech and "couldn't make nothing of the remainder". In a second hearing, the Samians came with just a bag and said "The bag wants flour." The Spartans answered that they didn't need to say "the bag", but still agreed to help.

I'll try my best from now on to not use "the bag", and texts will be long only when required. Just give me some slack once in a while; I'm a pompous ass and sometimes I want to show off.

Quotes and Acknowledgements in my Thesis

I finally finished the first draft of my PhD thesis. I did one page with a couple quotes that seemed appropriate for the work:

We believe nut things because it is part of our little monkey brains to try desperately to make patterns. That is the genius of humans, the quality that lets us learn. Pattern recognition has moved us off the hostile savanna and into the much safer condominiums. When you see your cavemate die shortly after a snake bite, it is probably a good idea to avoid all snakes. Of course, this over-simplification also leads to racism, religion, and all kinds of magical thinking.

Penn Jillette: magician, actor, political commentarist, all-around nice guy.

You are me, and I am you, and you are listening to our song right this instant, but you don't know it. Whatever you think you're hearing isn't there right now, it was prefabricated and melted into your ear a long time ago... try to go beyond the frequencies, beyond the sound of your surroundings and listen to whatever is coming out.
You'll found out that I'm waiting for you on the other side, being you, being me, and our song, our real song, was playing all along.

Anonymous

The only place I can have fun is in the acknowledgements part. I am kind of proud of it.

Acknowledgements

First and foremost, I would like to thank my greatest teacher of all: God. I know that I am here and that I am able to write all of this for a reason. I will do my best in never forgetting what a great fortune I have had in just being here, and that it comes with a lesson and a responsibility. I hope I am doing the work you have planned me to do.

I would like to thank the Mexican National Council of Science and Technology (CONACYT). Without their grant, this PhD would not have been possible.

I would like to thank my supervisor, Prof. Barry Lennox, for putting in me the idea of shooting directly for a PhD and for creating an environment of humour around this whole ordeal. Whilst the sensation of doing something that would impress everybody was short-lived, those first few days of uncertainty that you pulled with me are ones that I will not ever forget. Whatever the reason of why you offered me this opportunity, may that have been my good looks or my impossible-to-ignore charm: thank you for believing in me, even if it only was for just a few moments. Oh, and I will hunt you down, wherever you are, for making me suffer; I will leave a tip though.

I would like to thank my friends and colleagues that I have met in this my home far away from home called Manchester. Specially Oskar and Marisa, who, even though have reduced me to a third wheel in our relationship, have blossomed into a partnership that will not be forgotten. Whatever happens with you two, do know that, throughout these last couple of years, your relationship has provided me with an impressively beautiful site to see, as it is when two friends fall in love with each other.

I would like to acknowledge Nihil and NihilBack, my two Apple laptops. NihilBack is a PowerBook G4 with a 17'' screen, 1.67 Ghz, 1 Gb RAM. Nihil is a MacBook Pro with a 17'' screen, 2.5 Ghz, 4 Gb RAM. I want to thank you for your essential support in this project, as, without it, all of my work, from the thought process, to the simulations, to the actual writing up, would not have been possible. Both of you have granted me the possibility to do whatever I want, to experiment on my thoughts, to write my ideas down, and to share them with the world. You are the bridge to my loved ones, and my wings to my endeavours. I know you are just pieces of hardware to anybody else, but to me, you are an extension of my being, and without you, it is hard to be me. Thank you.

I would like to thank my beloved, Maria del Carmen Valle Lira. Our relationship was born in a very odd way, but I would not have expected otherwise, as both of us are odd in our own beautifully weird world. You portray the symptoms of my shortcomings, and the celebration of my virtues. I have become a better man because of the mirror you hold up for me. Thank you and I love you.

Finally, my parents: Luis Antonio Rascon Mendoza and Virginia Estebane Ortega. They gave me my name, they gave me my life, and everything else in between. I pride myself in having words for everything, but they truly shut me up when it comes down to describing how much I love them and appreciate the efforts they have put into giving me the life I have now. They are the reason I did this; they are the reason I thrive to be better. Their pride for me is my main goal in life. As I have said many times before, the only thing I aspire for is that when they lay in their deathbed they would think, "I am proud of my son." Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Carlin

I think it's time I write about someone I lost some time ago. Like any other death that I've experienced from afar, the feeling that I have for it doesn't come out until some time after. However, this time it's a little a different, as I've never met the man. I'm talking about George Carlin.

Those who know me know that most of the thoughts and positions that I waffle about have been brought up by comedians. Comedy is a wonderful, wondrous and wooing way to communicate. It disarms you, leaving you open for new thought. However, it is also tricky, troublesome and tormentful, as if it's done wrong, the message that was meant to be communicated may be misunderstood. And it is in this way that comedy strikes me as a very important medium: you need to be ready to be hit, you need to prepare yourself to open up. It is a bit like anal sex: you need to relax before it goes in, if not it's probably going to hurt (this one's for you Georgy).

It's on that regard that Mr. Carlin shines. He manages to convey his message beautifully arranged and perfectly portrayed, making it very difficult not to listen. He's going to kick you in the balls, and if you don't open up, he makes certain that it hurts. And in that exquisite pain, you start thinking about what he just said, and why it pains you. You start yelling back, trying to make some sense of your past knowledge about the subject, and at that moment it hits you: you don't know anything about the subject, just bits and pieces. So you research about it, you look into yourself for a new explanation, and you come out at the end with a new point. And then you realise that the new point is not so different from your starting point, and that in fact the slight differences between the old and the new are completely ridiculous. And in that ridicule you start laughing. You can't believe how important you thought those differences were, which now seem so insignificant. You listen to him again, and smile, and laugh... and an epiphany comes: You've just come to a conclusion about a subject with your own self, and with a smile in your face to top it off.

He's been my main tool for new thought since I knew about him. Even in his death he's helped me to know myself, as I've noticed that his death (being of a person I've never met) has hit me exactly the same way as any other death in my family. This suggested that I'm not particularly devoted to persons close to me, which I need to address. Either that, or I have unknowingly welcomed him as part of my family.

I know he would slap me on the face if I kept writing as if I was putting him on some sort of pedestal. He's not a saint (that specifically would infuriate him), and he's certainly not in heaven. But he's probably not in hell either. In his interview with Jesus in one of his books, there was a mention of the existence of a heck, which is not as bad as hell; who knows, he's probably there right now, playing poker with some friends of his. I suppose that now that he's dead he would enjoy the act of me writing shit about him. However, I tried, I really tried, but I can't come up with any bad things to write about him, other than he's white (which many people find offensive nowadays), and his idiotic quirk when he mimes fucking someone on stage.

Even his position in religion I always thought has been spot on:

If it's true that we're all from the center of a star, every atom on each of us from the center of a star, then we’re all the same thing. Even a Coke machine or a cigarette butt in the street in buffalo is made out of atoms that came from a star. They've all been recycled thousands of times, as have you and I. And therefore, it's only me out there. So what is there to be afraid of? What is there that needs solace seeking? Nothing. There's nothing to be afraid of because it's all us.

The trouble is we have been separated by being born and given a name and an identity and being individuated. We've been separated from the oneness, and that's what religion exploits. That people have this yearning to be part of the overall one again. So they exploit that. They call it god, they say he has rules, and I think it's cruel. I think you can do it absent religion.

For people who read this blog periodically (which I'm pretty sure I can count with the fingers of my left hand... the right hand is busy right now), you've probably noticed my unprecedented use of "foul" language in this post. Get used to it:

It's not a need [to use the F-word]. It's a choice. [...] It's a form of spice in my stew.

I've always tried to stop myself from using it when writing for this blog, but I don't think I will anymore. There's no such thing as "foul" language, they're just words, and damn it, I'm going to use every one that I deem necessary. In honour of Mr. Carlin, if it feels right, it's going in... that's what she said, I know.

I don't want to end without giving you what I think are his best two quotes:

In our school we didn't have grades. We didn't have A's, B's, C's and D's. The only A's I got -and this is a little corny- I got their Attention, I got their Approval, their Admiration, their Approbation, and their Applause. And those were the only A's I wanted, and I got'em.

As the answer for the question: If there was a Heaven, what would you like God to say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
Now we're going to have some fun!

Indeed.

Right Writer

Almost a year and a half ago I sat in front of this screen and pleaded for an unknown but familiar energy to move my fingers through the keyboard to begin writing. It worked like I knew it would.

I sat here and began the process of talking in my head, and then simply writing it down: think, write, think, write. I accustomed myself to the thought of seeing the writer in me emerge like it always has after what some may describe as a ritual: my plea to a god (in the latter case, Paz) in the form in which I needed to do. It's appropriate, as doing the plea involves the presence of the energy that I want the presence of.

It's a nice, illogical, but powerful circle that can't be defined, but somehow it works. I don't remember how it started to work, or how did I began understanding it. I'm pretty sure even now that I don't know how it works, but as with any rituals, it is not the inner mechanisms that we care about, but of their products; still, my rationale tempted me.

It's been long since I really delved into this being, into this ability again. However, this time, I'm frightful. My fear stems from not knowing what do I become when I write, is it me who is writing or is it this energy? And then I start to wonder if I'm the right vessel for such energy.

I read from others and sit in awe of their wondrous mastery over the word, and realise that I'm not a writer. I obviously don't think like one. The structure of my essays can't stand the rigour in which an essay needs to be written with. My stories don't hold the intense sway that I've read in others'. And the technique with which I write has been extensively criticised by superiors and colleagues as being plain "not good".

Still, I wonder: do these other writers, with their structural essays, swaying stories, "good" writing, have similar rituals as I do? Maybe not in the same manner as mine (a thought that not only saves their sane stature, but also my out-of-ordinary reputation), but with at least the same intent. They must have; even seeing a blank piece of paper (or word-processor screen) and imagining what to write about may be enough for this energy to come onto them. If this true, then an interesting concept creeps up:

Is it them who are writing or is it this energy? And then I start to wonder if they're the right vessel for such energy. The only difference between me and them in this respect would be my poetic attempts to make something more out of the seemingly ordinary event of starting to write something long. Nice little thought, but I won't go into it too much: I know I'm not a writer, I don't feel like writing everyday (thus, the rituals) and it is usually more what I say then what I write that feels more, you know, me.

Still, writers have always being mythical figures. They record history, communicate wisdom as well as help misinformation tactics, and even wind up being considered artists in the process. Of all the things that were considered historically significant in the last century, can you remember one that wasn't adhered to an impressive speech or important quote? And yet, borrowing a bit from a great writer/comedian (Lewis Black), to become a writer the only thing you need to do is to say "I am a writer" and you're done. Oh, and by his accounts, you also need to be full of shit.

As I'm staring at the end of this piece it has occurred to me that this is in fact the ritual that I just described (this time it was Lewis Black, who knew?), and, as I already know that I'm full of shit, there is only one thing left:

I AM A WRITER... so let it begin (hope Mr. Black was right).

EDIT: I tend to avoid editing a post after publishing it, unless I find some grammar mistakes or I know of something afterwards that needs to be added to the post. This is the latter. I just heard from Lewis Black in an interview:

If you want to write, sit down and start writing; that's what a writer is. Even if you're not writing anything of importance. Uhmm... THAT DOESN'T MEAN BLOGGING. Doesn't mean blogging. I don't care, it doesn't fuck count to me. It doesn't, [...] I get so upset by it I don't even... I really literally cannot form an opinion because when I say the word I just get enraged. It sounds like something... it sounds like fatty tissue. "I was doing very well, until I got this blog."

For those of you, like me, who doesn't know what fatty tissue is: it's the lump on the side of women's breast that signifies possible breast cancer. Here is the interview.

My opinion? I just laughed hysterically for about two minutes.

Where I'm Going

"I don't know where I'm going", one of the many themes of my life throughout it. It has been plaguing my conscience since I was given the gift of memory... or, depending how you see it, the curse of remembrance. It is this lack of knowledge that has, ironically, made me who I am: lonely, confused, and detoured.

Little by little I've been finding peace in that confusion: the fact of not having control on everything has evolved from being torture to a feeling of liberation; loneliness has finally uncovered itself as something that my subconscious yearns for, so I shouldn't escape from it; the sun has its virtues, and the moon isn't perfect.

I tend to write these posts as a way of freeing from me my demons and my angels, to communicate to the world what I'm feeling, and, thus, let go. However, as I read through my life, there hasn't been the change that I was trying to accomplish: I still don't know where I'm going. I find myself wanting my past, probably because I know how it ends. I keep seeing in others those entities that have followed me here, and they don't let me grasp on the current situation of uncertainty. I keep recognising patterns that are probably not there, and I cry and follow them as if I'm back then. There have been a couple of times in which nobody could deny the familiarity between the two instances (past and present), and it has been those couple of times that have been (and are) difficult.

However (oh, how I'm loving that word right now), a thought has come to me, for which I'm ever so eternally grateful for. That is the next step, that is the next peaceful confusion that I need to conquer and, from what I'm recollecting, I am (we are) doing slow-but-steady progress on:

No se a dónde voy, pero sé con quién voy.

I don't know where I'm going, but I know who I'm going with.

Alejandro Jodorowsky

Thank you... thank you so much, my love.

Un año mas, un año menos

It has been a year... so? What's changed?

I'm in a relationship that has challenged me to not only fulfill the part that lies in my responsability and that I usually am not able to meet, but to also commit to a long-distance situation that is famous for its difficulty. However, it has sustained me, I don't know how, but if it wasn't for it, I would probably be lost (more so than I am right now); I tend to be a loner, and seeing myself relying and pursuing the oral company of someone is not something that I'd expect. At the same time, it's not a question of reliability, as being so far away there is so much that someone can do to help. It is a matter of reflection, of feedback (ironically, me in the Control Engineering side); we're a mirror of each other, with all its caveats: I talk like a madman (yes, that hasn't changed) and she's the silent type; I'm more in the commercial arts, while she's more underground; I'm a techy, she's a bio; I don't read, while she loves it; I'm a raging thundershower, she's a spring breeze; I'm a know-it-all, while she actually does. Yet, we click, we nod in the same direction... Thank you Carmen, I love you.

I'm a fullblown PhD student now, with all its glory and stress. I am getting the hang of it though, little by little. I've found that is a matter for persistance, not in the work part, but in the planning. Knowing what to do today and the next day is always comforting. That, and waking up early really helps to get over stuff quickly.

Finally, I'm still here; I'm still going at it. I guess that's the thing that I should be most grateful for. I just hope I'm going about this the right way.

A sense of wonder, the joy of day, and glory of self, all smiling concur with the sound insane.

... Sort Of

I've waited much this day, and work's completed... sort of. I always tend to describe a phase of my life by a phrase, and this past few months have been exactly that: "sort of". Everything is closer than being finished than ever before (which, logically, it always is, but that's a topic for another time), and there's a blinking light at the end of the tunnel. Blinking, unfortunately, so it may be just a figment of my imagination, which from grading my own sanity, it might probably well be.

For those that have endured my weird, non-constant, non-periodical ramblings, and care at least a little for it: you may ask yourself, "How is this any different than before?" If you haven't asked yourself that, you might want to ponder it now... don't worry... I'll wait...

... The difference is that there's no turning back now. I'm more than halfway there, it feels like it. If I know myself as well as I think I do, I know that I won't leave this unresolved; pride is one part, fear is another. Yes, fear. You see, my mum is quite the silent psychic; once she just felt that I needed to bring an extra pair of shoes to a holiday trip to a place that unexpectedly had strong showers. I think I had some of that passed on to me, as I'm always thinking "Five years from now, I'm going to regret not finishing this, being so close to it." And it is true; not the best reason to finish it I suppose, but it does the job.

It's an acquired taste this research thing, and it has been a weird path to acquire it. I'm not too sure that I've acquired it completely though; I hope that the other half of the path takes care of that.

So here I go, ready to jump in this next part, and see it through the end... sort of.

Who is screwing who?

I live under a rock, apparently. No wait, I live in the United Kingdom (which may actually qualify as being under a rock). And I just came across the most hideous way to tell your partner you're screwing someone else:

It gets even better in the strike back:

Funny, yes, but what impresses me the most is the kind of pull that this Jimmy Kimmel has! His show is nice (I've watched it a couple of times in YouTube), but it isn't that nice. Just goes to show you how far a guy can go to hurt the people he has been betrayed by.

And for the record, I know it's a gag... well, I hope it's a gag, for the good of the little dignity that Hollywood and all of the invited guests have.

A Dream

Children talk about what they want to be when they 'grow up'; dreams of yonder, and sighs of tomorrow. Unfortunately, they don't realize that it implies one little thing: growing up. A dream is affected by situations and external factors that change it, corrupt it. A dream is an innocent thing when being child, even noble sometimes (a firemen, a doctor, an astronaut), just like a child. Then, through the process of growing up, that dream grows up too. It changes: "Well, maybe not a firemen, too dangerous, why not a chemical engineer? I can still deal with fire and maybe save some lives." Then it comes to the point that it's possible that the dream, when grown up, is a completely different dream with a completely different objective then what it had when it was born... just like us.

I don't have or done many things to be proud of. Being an only child was a crutch that until very recently have I been taking away, and I'm not known as being ambitious. But I do have one thing: my dream.

As I stood there, 12 years old, in front of 30 or so parents and teachers, I recited my speech. It was for a grade for the Oral Communication class, about a week or two before I graduated from junior high. I felt a sudden stroke of steadiness in me while I was shaking like a mad man. I had my notes on my hand and the group in front of me. I started. The topic was about my top ten most influential persons; I don't remember them all, although I do believe I included the persons who helped cleaned the school as one of the top ones (I liked talking to them). Everybody was looking at me, not with the comfortless stare that I was accustomed at the beginnings of puberty, but with interest and surprising wonder. I loved it, and I craved it from then on.

I found myself directing small study groups where it was mostly me over at the blackboard explaining a problem, or everybody gathered around me and my laptop seeing how to debug lines of code. My geekiness strived around the fact that it didn't really matter if I masterfully knew the subject that I was talking about, it was about how well I transmitted what I knew about it that made the difference. Einstein, although a great mind, was a terrible teacher because he didn't know how to conduct himself in front of a group of persons.

It was during my high school years that I confirmed my dream, my 'What am I Going to Be When I Grow Up?' story: I want to be a teacher. It hasn't changed after high school; no matter what has happened around me, it just keeps getting harder and harder to steer me away from it. It also really doesn't matter if I'm in a school or not (although, I rather be in one), while for an hour or so I'm in front of a group of people and they grant me that beautiful "Oh! So, that's how it's done." And some decades later, I receive the news that one of my students made it big and became a teacher, and loves it as much as me.

Such is my everlasting dream, and tis' I: the dreamer.

Light

I frequently find myself analyzing what I'm doing and where I'm going. Unfortunately, I also find myself not doing much about it, because it turns out that, as I've seen in myself the past few weeks, I'm a very complicated being. I carry baggage, a lot of baggage. I blame this baggage for what I am, good and bad, but I think it's time I put it to rest:

"The thing with Julia and Hugo screwed me over." No it didn't, I screwed me over. I had nothing to do with this, I'm not part of their life, and they're not part of mine. We're not the threesome that we once were, but I wanted us to still be it, badly; it was me all along making my life miserable, not them... they're them and I'm me. It was nice when it was there, but now it's not, and finally I have come to the understanding that it's nobody's fault. People change, they carry on with their lives; I can't expect for them to freeze in their place while I carry on with mine. Even more so considering that they had each other for so long: it was bound to happen, and I'm truly happy for them. Congratulations if you're reading.

"Juarez will always be my home." No... Hugo was the only thing binding me to that city. Even before I left for Manchester, I knew that the house where I have lived in since I was 5 years old wasn't my house anymore, it's my parent's home. I moved to Queretaro and that was my home for a while, now I'm in Manchester and that will be my home for a while. After that? Well, that's for God to know and for me to find out... however, Queretaro seems nice enough.

"I will always be the 'lonely' one." No, Carmen has proven to be the best thing that has happened to me for a long while. If I feel lonely it's because of my own thoughts and needs, I've chosen to feel this way and I think it suits me. It's good to feel lonely, it gives opportunity for introspection and makes the time which I don't feel lonely much, much better: thank you for the time we spent together, baby, I know you're reading (coincidentally, "Wish you were here (Balkce Version)" just came up in iTunes).

Hate, intolerance... it's all baggage. I never thought that blame on others was too, but it is. Makes you think: "feeling light" may actually be a double entendre...