Waltz through the Wind

Viento

2011-11-12T04:35:00.000-08:00

Corriente de aire de nacimiento reciente,
Viento jóven que juega con mi ser.

¿Dónde estabas tú hace unos momentos?
¿De dónde sales tú, niño viento?

Ahora me sacudes, mis ramas meces,
Ahora empujas y me guías al crecer.

¿Has estado conmigo siempre?
Moldeandome aunque no fuese consciente.

¿O eres solo un fenómeno reciente?
Una cosa joven, dulce, incipiente.

2011-09-10T07:47:00.001-07:00

Ignacio

2011-09-01T22:38:00.001-07:00

I sometimes wonder why people wear roman torture devices cast in silver around their necks. Why they protect themselves with symbols of water on their foreheads, and why they wait for hours during a smotheringly sunny day in a crowded street for the pleasure of seeing something sacred, a golden virgin that probably appears every year at the same date and time, carried by six or eight people who are also there to believe. I think of this at night lying in bed, and then, when I see unknown things in the dark I draw exes on my face and chest with my fingertips.

Hama

2011-08-01T11:19:00.004-07:00

They hid the truth, in 1982.
Nothing on the news, then it was late.

Today history repeats,

Wheelspokes revolve, as the tanks roll in.

Now rumors escape the dishonest regime,
Drawing water from a river, the wheels keep on rolling.

2011-08-01T11:15:00.000-07:00

"Hm... yes... a man holds the fate of the world in his two hands, and yet, simply because he is afraid, he just lets things drift- that is a truism... I wonder what men are most afraid of... Any new departure, and especially a new word- that is what they fear most of all... But I am talking too much. That is why I don't act, because I am always talking. Or perhaps I talk so much just because I can't act. I have got into a habit of babbling to myself during this last month, while I have been lying into a corner for days on end, thinking... fantastic nonsense. And why have I come out now? Can I really be capable of that? Am I really serious? No, of course I'm not serious. So I am just amusing myself with fancies, children's games? Yes, perhaps I am only playing a game."

-Fedor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

I turned back

2011-07-29T19:18:00.000-07:00

Today I stood,

At the edge of the world.

I've yet to see anyone fall...

But dead winds roar

The ground is slick,

And water wets the floor.

I stared at an ocean's black,

Thicker than I've seen before;

I could have swiftly swum, or sunk.

But my stomach churned, my gut went soft

And my brain began to thump,

My thoughts bled into the water,

But I pumped them back,

And of that, I thought no more.

Today I walked, right to the edge,

And dipped my toes quick in the shore;

I turned back, I turned back.

La Gran Ciudad

2011-07-25T13:03:00.000-07:00

Edificios dorados al atardecer

Brillan como luz reflejada sobre el mar.

El extranjero contempla su Inmensidad;

Un paraje temporal, nunca un Hogar.

La ciudad lo alberga, gigante.

Lo abrazan sus cadenas de calles,

Lo asfixian con su ruido, su humo contundente,

y lo integran en su silueta sobre el Rio y sus caudales.

Los edificios celebran la unión,

Ventanales brillantes que arrojan sus destellos

Sobre la pareja como arroz.

Las paredes se pintan para la fiesta con aerosol.

El extranjero raptado intenta huir,

Pero es demasiado grande la Inmensidad.

Tiene leves recuerdos de alguna vez

Haber tenido otro Hogar.

Y los árboles exóticos se ponen a luchar,

Alzan sus ramas e inician la destrucción.

El extranjero corre sin poder escapar,

Sin tener un lugar donde descansar

Hasta que recuerda que existe el avión,

Y un aeropuerto donde lo puede tomar.

Armado con su pasaporte se lanza a volar,

Pliega sus alas buscando una nueva nación.

De mientras, la ciudad se pone a llorar.

El río inunda los cordones de sus calles.

La pintura de sus edificios se corre con la humedad.

El sol ilumina sus solares baldios como pequeños valles

Y la ciudad alarga su tentáculo,

Buscando al fugitivo con los días de compás.

Intentando invitar al extranjero

Se expande cada día un poco más.

A day out with Jamie

2011-06-14T14:18:00.000-07:00

2011-06-12T11:16:00.000-07:00

In Flanders Fields

2011-05-05T12:34:00.001-07:00

by John McCrae, May 1915 (WWI)

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Latakya

2011-04-21T15:08:00.001-07:00

Allah ou akbar. People chant, they cheer;
Feet ricochet off the surface of the street,
Vibrations in a hopeful atmosphere.
Tonight we fight. We will never retreat.

Then the guns vomit their own petty rant,
And the songs we sung turn to children's screams.
We scatter, some fall flat onto pavement.
Now shattered, nightmares, for some finished dreams.

The shoreline's tainted with the colour red,
The darkened streets lie heavy and silent.
We won't dream tonight of those who are dead
Our sleep so still, uneasy and violent,

But that soft girl who was shrieking, she's seen the pain.
She dreams, for she sees what we have to gain.

------------------------------------------------------------
Dedicated to Latakya. I spent many years of my childhood on the beach in this seaside town, with my family, swimming, sandcastles, etcetera; I remember it fondly. On the 18th a peaceful protest against Bashar's regime was silenced by the harsh speech of gunfire.
You can see the video here.
This is the single most shocking video I have seen on the internet. It gave me nightmares. And I just had to dedicate some writing to this.
All my best to the Syrian people.
-Felipe

2011-01-27T08:46:00.000-08:00

You can have your cake and eat it too, until someone realises you've had too much cake.

2011-01-25T07:11:00.000-08:00

Sun floods your eyes, as cold pierces my bones.
You lay staring at me. You, there, throwing stones,
Was that a glint of emotion that sleepily shone?
Were you just waiting there 'til I was gone.

This probably ended before it'd begun;
I wonder if its time was done
While I was up in the clouds, my dreams on the run;
Then I forgot the sullen, sweltering sun.

You may think the breeze is warm,
As the air caresses your face.
Worms squirm through me in swarms,
Just feel frost's cold embrace.

While my face goes numb in the winter air,
My flesh rots, my features fall off in despair.
My eyelashes burn in the aloofness of your glare.

You, you let the sun shine off your hair.

2011-01-23T15:12:00.000-08:00

Day after day, love turns grey
Like the skin of a dying man
Night after night, we pretend it's all right
But I have grown older and
You have grown colder and
Nothing is very much fun anymore.

And I can feel one of my turns coming on.
I feel, cold as a razor blade
Tight as a tourniquet
Dry as a funeral drum,
Run to the bedroom, in the suitcase on the left
You'll find my favourite axe
Don't look so frightened
This is just a passing phase
Just one of my bad days
Would you like to watch T.V.?
Or get between the sheets?
Or contemplate the silent freeway?
Would you like something to eat?
Would you like to learn to fly?
Would you like to see me try?
Would you like to call the cops.
Do you think it's time I stopped?
Why are you running away?

2011-01-09T10:46:00.000-08:00

2011-01-07T23:44:00.001-08:00

I lay wondering if I would sleep and if I could
When an angel came and brought me to a barren wood;
It spoke to me of God's great war and its high stakes,
Suddenly I lay in bed, shuddering and wide awake.

Stone Wall

2010-12-27T17:13:00.000-08:00

Stoic faces staring back
On the side of a mountain wall,
Like Jesus' face, clearly showing
Upon the ancient shroud of Turin

Frowning faces staring back, joking,
Pensive, judging, hunting for cracks;
Maybe your polished exterior is flawed,
Maybe that's why they stare at you in awe,
And why they'll never look away
Watching through you throughout the days,

Until slowly, suddenly you look, understand
That they're only the imaginings of a sad man,
Just scars on a surface of stone and sand.

Desert winds

2010-12-14T23:07:00.000-08:00

Travelling for days, I still can't conceive my goal;
Desert sands press their way through my soul,
Outer forces veer me off track.
I try to move forward, but only go back.
If I drop my foot, it sifts
-------------------------through the
---------------------------------------ground,
If I push with my body, winds just turn me around.

I force my way through putrid weather,
My hands in front of me, together,
And the only sound I hear is wind
Blazing its shrill tune through my head
As if I were a seashell and it a kid,
Hearing music through something long dead.

As millions of specks, yellow, red, black, gold,
Hack through the air, I start to erode.
Each memory takes a small part of me,
Grinding me down, never setting me free,
Until I'm not lost, yet not wanting to be found,
Now I'm but a piece of dust, slowly sinking to the ground.

Always look on the bright side of life!

2010-12-09T14:09:00.000-08:00

Ribcage

2010-11-08T14:33:00.000-08:00

Badump! Badump! Badump!

A little red bird screams its silent song.
Someone once took great care in sheltering it from the outside world,
Building a cage of bone, and twine, and gold,
Quite austere, but wonderful for a stranger to behold,

Yet the bird shrieks all day long,
Pressing its neck through gilded bars, so far as to dig into its flesh;
There's food for ages, but you can see its ribs through its chest.

It hasn't thought of resting its hoarse voice,
Of accepting its prison temporarily, as if it had a choice,
And letting its wounds heal, gathering up strength,
To then wreck its odious home with a thousand pecks.

A walk

2010-10-07T13:47:00.000-07:00

Today, I decided to take advantage of my university's geographical location and i headed to the beach after class this morning. When I reached the sand, I took off my shoes and socks, and felt the grains between my toes, not really silky smooth but with little rocks and imperfections. So I walked diagonally to the seashore, and proceeded to stroll between the raging waves and the wall of sand that had been created by erosion recently, because it hadn't been there in the summer; maybe it's a seasonal thing.
The sights were perfect. On one side, the city, on the other, waves so big they could engulf you if you dove in. The water was white and turbulent, frothing with foam, and the wind pulled my shoelaces and hair to the side, but I just let it sway... One of my baggy sweater's sleeves hung low, past my dangling hand, and the other was pulled up, as I held my notebooks and ipod, which connected back to my head. The music and sound of beach waves created the perfect high, and the water caressed my toes. I stopped to roll up my pant legs, to get in a little deeper, and now it felt like I was in the water with the big waves.
I followed the shoreline until I got to the moors, which are made of big rocks with asphalt and gravel on top; I jumped the fence and walked down one, as painful as stepping on pebbles is barefoot. On my side, a man had caught a huge fish, he screamed at a partner in another moor, then smiled and said hello. I went to the edge, standing as far as I could. Looking down, the rocks on the edge look like dice that have been tossed mercilessly by a cruel god. If you stare into the horizon, it's like looking into every single of the places you've lived... In my case, I imagined the beaches of Latakya in Syria, and the fishing club in Buenos Aires that my brother once was a part of. Even if the places aren't really in the direction you're staring at, looking into the sea feels like you're looking straight at your origins. Columbus is pointing that way, though, into the Mediterranean. I wonder why that is.
The waves crashed upon the dice and occasionally a light spray of saltwater would land on my face and body. It was rhythmical. The sea is so soothing, even when it's rough. In the sky, clouds danced this way and that, but the sun kept on shining. I made my way into the city, only looking back to put on my sneakers and take off my sweater.

2010-10-07T13:36:00.000-07:00

Si quieres un amigo, ¡Domestícame!
- ¿Qué hay que hacer? -- dijo el principito.
-- Hay que ser paciente-- respondio el zorro--. Te sentarás al principio un poco lejos de mí, así, en la hierba. Te miraré de reojo y no dirás nada. La palabra es fuente de malentendidos. Pero cada dia, podrás sentarte un poquito más cerca...

Baby, it's a Wild World

2010-10-06T12:01:00.000-07:00

aburrido

2010-10-03T13:46:00.000-07:00

As I walk, I count the steps I take,
I listen to the sounds they make
On the pavement of the street
Step one, Step two, say my two feet,

And I like to look back,
Think of all the things I used to do
The days I walked the city through,

But one thing that I have found
Is that no matter how lovely the sound
Of long-gone paces on the street,
(Step one, Step two, that lively beat)

When you stop to listen, it's done,
And memories won't take you back,
'Cause time walks on a one-way track...

2010-10-03T13:41:00.000-07:00

Caminaba por la orilla del mar, un atardecer,
Y sentí la brisa marina disolviendome la piel.
La mudé y la mudé, y en nada me quedé...

Sunset, Sunrise

2010-09-19T13:53:00.000-07:00

On a dimming, dull afternoon, the sun
Makes its way through tall, grey-green trees,
Setting slow and soft, with no rush;
Night then soaks through the atmosphere,

And the world becomes black, silver and blue
of unlit earth, mother moon, and the stars;
The crickets chirp for hours on end,
Until the moon starts to descend,

And amidst the buzzing hubbub of bees,
Of flittering flies and low circling leaves,
Long yellow rays of travelling light
Shoot down the dark with fearless might,

Through drops of dew lying on resting plants,
Waking ripples of water in a pond,
And setting a black sky ablaze
'To violet, red and orange haze.

I've spent the previous hour or so writing this, to destress and avoid thinking that tomorrow I start college. I'm so nervous, and definitely starting off on the wrong foot, because I forgot to attend the first two classes of catalan (come on, they were before classes officially start, they caught me by surprise/ I would not have attended the first one had I known, because I had a big exam) and very possibly this could mean that I no longer have a spot reserved in said class.
This in turn means that, since at least half my classes are in catalan, and I do not speak it well (or at all, for that matter, I just sort of understand it), I could find myself completely lost for the first trimester or so.
I'm hoping I can sort this out tomorrow and attend catalan that very afternoon.
Also, I'm really excited for starting, but scared shitless at the same time. My reasons are:
1- CATALAN
2- Well, that is it. There's also the fact that I'm going to be lost in a sea of people who do not know my name, and will be forced to step out of my shell and start talking to strangers so I can make friends. But I will have friends in time, and I'm hoping that, since everyone's in the same situation, they'll talk to me first, haha.
I'm really looking forward to meeting new people of different backgrounds. Also, the campus is by the beach, which is such an amazing thing. Smoking is prohibited, which I find strange because all the other unis have the teachers smoking with the students. However, I don't mind it at all, though the first thing you stumbled upon when entering the UPF site was this big scary sign warning you about smoking on uni turf.
It's strange, everybody else has already started, and I'm the last to go. Just give me my blindfold and a cigarette, and set me against the wall already. Haha. But I'm as ready as I'll ever be.
It's taken me a long time to actually think about this but there are aspects of school I will miss.
Well, first of all, I finally have to face I'm not a kid anymore (yep, I realised I'm an adult a year too late), and that I'm getting old and withering and soon I shall die. Hahha well, I do want to grow old. And you can die anytime, anywhere, it's all just a matter of chance.
Then there's the speaking in English. I'll miss just chatting in English with whoever in the hallways-- now it's only Catalan, and Spanish if I'm lucky. Plus, walking around the city with English-speaking friends made me feel really cool / slightly douchey at times haha. But being able to pull out the cellphone and call some foreigner to impress a pretty girl on the metro was a great ace up my sleeve. I guess I can still get away with this, on occasions.

Ah, another scary thought that lurks in the depths of my mind is this one: if, by a stroke of luck, I get invited out this weekend (it's a catalan holiday, we have friday off and everybody goes out all night that night), I have to decline, because I'll be in Madrid. This means a prossible loss of said friendship, because I'll look like someone who tends not to accept proposals to go out (which might sort of be true haha) which means that any friendships I make this week will be null and void next week, which then means that I will have to omit this week from friendship-building and will have to start, from scratch, next week.
Though I doubt I'll have friends for some time. I hope I meet someone magical, with whom I just click, and everything is energetic and electric. Like in On the Road.
Had not had one of these rants in a long time. Feels strange to write in English (but I guess it is good practice, since I won't be doing so in class anymore), but it feels good to say anything I want on this page. I'm like a girl with a diary, ha. (or, like Don Draper with a diary, ha haa.)
I hope all goes well tomorrow. If it doesn't, I at least hope it's a big, whacky, embarassing anecdote that I can laugh at this upcoming afternoon.
Oh, and I hope catalan classes work out... (I pray)

Amichai : My People Are Alive

2010-09-07T15:40:00.000-07:00

by Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

When we were young, cicadas buzzing in a nearby tree,
We'd go out to play at early dawn, just you and me,
Frolic between blades of grass, swaying, greys and silvery hues,
Until the sun rose, turning the world into orange-red glass,
And the stars set softly into the earth behind us, blue.

At dusk one night, they took you away. Who would I have, to play in the fields?
Years later, under the sweltering sun, (Zzzzz -- piercing my eardrums)
They found you, among others, in an earthy pit. Brought you home in a car,
And I watched you return to the soil (Still, there you are).

I remember the long-ago fun, when I was a child;
But who'd want to play in the fields, knowing the secrets of the ground?
I once loved my old thoughts in this vast landscape,
But cicadas beat my feelings into a haze;
Corpses line our memories, pillaged and raped.

The Sea at Night

2010-08-26T16:30:00.000-07:00

The Sun's crawled down, under the Sea,
And night creatures come into sight,
Creeping out from behind rocks and stones,
Taking time to cool their bones
--Now that harsh heat's turned cold night.

Let's take a swim, jump into the Sea,
With its freckles of reflections of Stars,
Where white waves break the hint of a Moon
Into silvery, satin scars.
Let's go for a swim, so, so far,

'Cause the Sun will come very soon,
And we don't have much time to dive in,
Under a blanket of sad, gloomy night,
Now, while the lighting's still dim,
Now, while the timing's still right.

2010-07-25T14:50:00.000-07:00

Black and white shadows move in and out,
Up and about a movie screen,
Celuloid dreams of stories past
Of rebels and gentlemen and beauty queens.

Images of stars project from the grave;
You dance, you laugh for us again and again,
You tell us your stories, and we all want to know--
We listen so quietly, admiring the picture show.

The scenes we observe,
It's strange to think,
Happened once, maybe 50 years ago,
Were played a million times more,
Watched by children and housewives and men sipping drinks
And trannies and grannies all over the globe.

And yet the seasons change, things disappear
Everyday people and things we hold dear
Vanish, colours fading,
Our memories will fail us,
Then we shall die too,
Others will forget us;

But then we see you,
From at least 50 years ago,
Your youth withers so slow, so slow
You've all grown old- or died-

But again and again we repeat, rewind
You're all so young and talented, in our minds,
But it's not only the acting,
It's that amazing feat you've managed:

Time is unkind, but I think you've done well,
Avoiding what I think is Hell.
Forever and ever, we'll all see
You and love you, your memory.

Though we all disappear
Sooner or later, now or in years,
You've clasped on to existence,
Reaching out for eternity.

In years to come, when society's moved on,
With robots and rockets and people on the moon,
Somebody will look back and remember you,
Observing how people lived, such a long time ago...

And a feeling will spark, a bond with all of us,
The anonymous.
We watched you too.

Lens focus, a close-up of your face
Expressions so slight and full of grace.
The lights are bright, we watch tonight
A black-and-white motion-picture, tribute to the human race.

You might as well jump!

2010-07-19T16:31:00.000-07:00

From Here to Eternity

2010-07-18T16:45:00.000-07:00

A: I never knew it could be like this! Nobody ever kissed me the way you do.

B: Nobody?

A: No, nobody.

B: Not even one? Out of all the men you've been kissed by?

A: [giggling] Now that'd take some figuring. How many men do you think there've been?

B: I wouldn't know. Can't you give me a rough estimate?

A: Not without an adding machine. Do you have the adding machine with you?

B: I forgot to bring it.

2010-07-07T17:37:00.000-07:00

I will be sitting in church,
Between saintly statues and pews,
And thoughts will prowl in my head,
Getting closer, closer to you.

You can do nothing to stop them,
But succumb to my every whim;
I'll let all my passions run free
While we both hum along to hymns.

I'll let all my secrets run wild
And nobody will ever know
That in the church I once smiled,
Thinking of fictional sins.

2010-07-04T13:39:00.000-07:00

My trusty camera and cap, film photos to come soon

2010-06-05T06:46:00.000-07:00

by Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

Today I was given my wings,
I bat them like soft eyelashes.
They shine, they're such beautiful things;
They glow like little girls' sashes.

They are just a caleidoscope,
Refracting golden rays of light;
Shimmering in the day,
And glowing in the night.

The Sun moves its way through my wings;
Translucent, the purest of things,
And though I won't have them for long,
Short love doesn't mean it's less strong,

So, I see nothing quite as grand
As posing gently on my stand,
Trying to look as glad as I can,
Liking the feel of my wingspan.

The birds, through the forest they sing
Of my newfound, iridescent wings.
Their voice, oh the Joy it does bring,
For once, I do feel like a King,

So I start to voice along,
Joining in with their happy song,
And I muster all my might,
Jumping up and taking flight.

2010-06-02T11:26:00.001-07:00

by Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

Dive into a sea of blue,
Deeper, let it grow dark.
Deeper, let the water surround you,
Deeper, deeper, let it soak you through.

Dive, away from the light.
In your brain, nitrogen sparks,
Until it becomes dark as night.
Further, further, lose your eyesight.

It isn’t frightening.

More like a blanket,
Wrapped around you by your Mom,
The woman whose hair you would comb,
The woman who held you in her womb;

Bubbles morph, up and away,
But there you stay,
Like a sinking stone,
Lying alone in a green and black zone…

Swim far down,
And when you can’t take it anymore,
Come back;

See sunlight erupt.
Let your inert body
Lap it all up.

2010-05-29T14:20:00.000-07:00

There I was, walking down the street;
Shuffling by, I moved my two feet--
Making a sound, a simple beat,
Soft music, a wonderful treat.

I passed the park, our eyes did meet.
Yours, so big, so blue, and so sweet,
Dazzled me-- I had to retreat,
And by your side, I did take a

Seat.

Fallen Idol

2010-05-04T07:12:00.000-07:00

by Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

Last time you went out the door,
I screamed, I cried, I groveled,
I threw myself on the floor;

Now I've torn down all my walls
Push me, shove me, or beat me,
Bite me, I won't move at all.

I once called you in my prayers-
But I've built me a new Home-
So scurry back to your filthy lair.

Let's get physical

2010-04-11T13:24:00.000-07:00

I find it preposterous that we are conditioned to believe in the superiority of a world of ideas, and how the physical world lacks value. Immediately, we judge a woman who marries a rich man so she can have objects. She is a gold-digger, and while this might be true, it is also true that morality is subjective, so who says she's doing something bad? Maybe the old man knows this, and just wants his wife for physical reasons. If this is the case, then both people are benefitted, and nobody gets hurt-- what makes it wrong?
Yet our society judges, because we have been taught that love is the ideal, mostly from the Bible (referring to Christian societies). However, we find ourselves in a greatly secularised culture, where right and wrong are not as clearly defined as in the good ol' days, and each citizen has a right to implement his/her own moral compass.
If we can use our own compasses for morality, or for the generation of ideas, or basically anything, just because it is within our rights, why should we assume that ideas are more important than the physical world around us? This was once a justificaton, used by medieval philosophers/priests, of the importance of the immortal spirit over our transitionary stay on earth; if we behaved well, we would gain access to heaven (See for example, San Agustin- my philosophy class is in Spanish, but I guess this must be Saint Augustine?).
However, now the numbers of people that believe in heaven, or in an inmortal spirit, dwindle. The spiritual has no logical superiority to the physical. In fact, the physical is our reality*, and ideas remain only in our heads, more subjective than ever. Is it that wrong for a person to have hedonistic values? I suppose not. Yet I cannot help to consider a person like Paris Hilton**, who may not have thought once in her life, to be shallow.
Herein lies my dilemma: though I do not feel the body is superior to the mind, I am having a hard time justifying this.

*Though it is true that we each filter it in our own way, and nobody has the same experience.

**Actually, I sometimes think Paris Hilton has just created a scandalous character through which she gains lots of money, which would require a pretty advanced mind, in my opinion. However, she is the ideal dumb blonde, so I use her as an example.

2010-04-08T15:11:00.000-07:00

by Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

A spirit fondles the sand,
During the funeral of a dame
That died by the hands
Of an ocean untamed.

Blood froths on the seashore,
On this date of her death.
Her vengeance, to kill more;
To take others' last breaths.

She does unto others
What happened to her;
Insipid, she smothers-
Revenge of an oiltanker.

Together we were kids

2010-04-07T12:54:00.000-07:00

by Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

Soon we will have to say Goodbye.
I try to buy time, but words wilt away;
I feel a funny feeling in the corner of my eye,
Remembering the good old days.

It tickles my nose, and I try,
And try to stop my lids from puffing up.
I blink repeatedly, yet I
Reap no rewards-- Down my face, teardrops drop.

So I sit and wonder why,
What happened to all these years?
Thinking of childhood friends, I cry.
Don't watch my face flooding with tears.

Photograph

2010-04-03T11:29:00.000-07:00

by Ellen Von Unwerth

Waiting, on the Edge

2010-04-02T18:20:00.001-07:00

by Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

As a child I was scared of Growing Up,
But the days flew by and things just changed.
Now there's no choice, time's up,
My heart throbs, hiperactive, life's rearranged.

During those Spanish Summers by the pool
When bats would swoop in to drink at night,
I'd live, far from routine and school
I'd dive into the deep end, without fright;

Now I find myself staring down at a deep sea
On a diving board, and time's at its end.
I do not have a choice, so I count to three:
I know I must try, I must try to descend

And jump, without the excuse of being a kid
For any mistakes that I may commit.
Now I walk the plank, and soon I shall dive
Into the vast empty space that will be my life.

2010-04-02T08:21:00.000-07:00

Home

2010-03-26T15:43:00.000-07:00

Childhood in the Middle East
And then a flight across the World
And then to Europe's West,
Experiences to be posessed
But Cardinal confusion
Exponentially increased.

Inhabitant of many places,
Native of none.

Unique snowflakes,
And all that Shit.
Diamonds in the rough
-Mothered by pressure-
Just Cheap carbon atoms,
Rearranged.

Travelling the World
Absorbing black soot,
It marches through my veins,
And plots its route
Osmoting, expanding,
Tainting what were
Supposedly My Roots.

The wandering thrust upon me
My parents' desire to roam
Forged my Identity
But slaughtered my notions of Home.

Orpheus

2010-03-23T10:11:00.001-07:00

by Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

He always remembers his first true love-
Poisoned by snake, on her white wedding day-
Once he stormed through hell, to bring her above,
And thus, carry on, without further delay.

So he went down to Hell, where fire is black,
And pacted with the fiery God of beneath:
If he trusted her, without looking back
To the sad husband, her life he’d bequeath.

She followed him, almost reaching the light,
But he looked back when she shouted his Name.
As was accorded, She vanished from sight;
Temptation and he were only to blame.

Beasts now listen to grief of monsters past,
Sad strokes of his lire give her life, at last.

(attempt at a sonnet)

2010-03-13T17:12:00.000-08:00

by Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

We observe the countryside,
On our six-foot concrete pedestal,
On top of a hill
Which we climbed and climbed.

We climbed and climbed,
Through fields of Grain and Seed,
Up a makeshift ladder
Of iron bars, and now We enjoy

Endless expanses bathed in Sun
And the Earth covered with sun
Flowers,
A spectacular, Andalusian view;

And White clouds flit by,
Across the horizon,
Swimming like fish
In the Sea that's the Sky.

Together We'll eat
And watch the world quietly
So far away.
Over there, the Spanish Country.

Canción del Anciano

2010-03-12T14:45:00.000-08:00

de Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

Dice en su cartel de cartón,
Garabateado con permanente:
"No quiero monedas, quiero cambio"
Pero quien no cambia es la gente.

Extiende su mano, arrugada,
Grita con dignidad perdida,
Observa con cara ausente,
¿Acaso os falta comida?

--La felicidad no conoce
Sus mejillas hundidas.

No conoce la sonrisa,
No conoce la esperanza,
Solo conoce las miradas que ignoran de su vida,
Que lo atraviesan-- es un Fantasma.

El frio lo traspasa
Y Nunca curan sus heridas.

El rostro de un Anciano, demacrado,
Te ruega por una moneda;
Mientras todos pasan a su lado
Ahí, pobre, Él se queda.

Winter Crisis

2010-03-06T04:40:00.000-08:00

by Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

The last cries of Winter
Resound through the night.
Though her spell shall splinter,
She employs all her might.

She freezes the streets,
Buries forests in snow,
But Sun shines--
In a tree, a leaf starts to grow-

It buds and unravels,
Pushing snow away,
And so we meet
That sliver of Hope,

That says "Soon,
We shall rise to our feet,"
While we await that glorious day.

Last cries of Winter

2010-03-04T13:37:00.000-08:00

Veranos en el cortijo

2010-03-03T13:02:00.000-08:00

Nada me ha marcado tanto como lo hicieron mis veranos de mi juventud, en Bárcena, la finca familiar, que eran eternos hasta que un día acababan, y que eran etereos, una dimensión completamente distinta a la vida en Siria. Ahí, yo era un niño español, cada día era completamente libre, podía ir lo más lejos posible y no encontraría rastros de colegio ni de problemas ni de nada, solo podía llegar a la verja que nos separaba de los toros por un lado, y una carretera si siguiese por el otro. Siempre serán un sueño.
En los veranos de mi juventud, tostándonos bajo el sol andaluz, los primos y un labrador, Samba, ahora vieja y ciega, emprendíamos viajes hacia el punto geodésico, en la colina más alta de las tierras de Bárcena, cerca de Morón de la Frontera.
Saldríamos por el jardín de la casa de la abuela, pasando por al lado del pino gigante que nos daba sombra y piñones para recoger, ya fuese en tierra o buceando en la piscina; los piñones buenos se hundían. Los malos eran los que flotaban junto a los bichos muertos y las agujas del pino. La piscina era grande, y al llegar siempre estaba vacía. Un año, hubo ratas, que se ahogaron al llenar la piscina. Ahí aprendí nadar. De noche, los murcielagos se lanzarían hacia el agua, bebiendo del cloro. De vez en cuando nos bañabamos a medianoche, encendiendo un foco, pero el frio y el miedo nos hacían durar muy poco en el agua nocturna.
Bajabamos a los olivares, llenos de arena, y caminabamos entre las filas de olivos. Cruzabamos lo que en invierno era un riachuelo, que ahora era solo tierra seca y agrietada, con plantas largas que crecían alrededor.
Muchas veces eran plantas de regaliz, que se podían cortar y chupar- un sustituto a las chucherias que no se encontraban en nuestras caminatas. Otras veces, eran plantas con frutos verdes ovalados, que, golpeados de cierta manera, se defendían echando un dinámico chorro de agua. También había cesped largo, y cañas de bambú, que no sé de dónde provenian. Esta, junto a los olivos y girasoles, era la flora del lugar.
En el sitio donde crecían tres "bosques" de cañas construíamos pueblos, cuya moneda y comida siempre eran los piñones. Cada primo desempeñaba un papel en el pueblo-una vez, en un día ventoso, fui cura- y una vez todos los habitantes del pueblo fuimos piratas. A Gabriel, el que cuidaba de los olivos, no le hacía mucha gracia que construyeramos, porque luego las cañas bloqueaban el paso de su tractor.
Al pasar los bosques de cañas, seguíamos paralelos al riachuelo seco- donde en el invierno habitaban ranas, serpientes y tortugas- y llegabamos a un sendero. A la distancia, se veían los tres pinos, que por lo visto habían estado enfermos por años, y otra finca, no Bárcena. Adelante nuestro, crecían millares de girasoles, y la tierra se alzaba en una colina que culminaba con el punto geodésico.
El punto geodésico no era ninguna maravilla de la arquitectura. Más bien era una estructura de hormigón armado con unas grapas de hierro que servían de escalera. Tengo entendido que marcaba un grado de latitud y altitud, o algo así. Subiendo sus dos metros de altura, te podías sentar y admirar la infinitud de los olivos que se extendían hasta el horizonte.
Lejos se veía Bárcena, donde estaban mis padres, los abuelos y los tíos, y aún más lejos estaba Morón (no lo recuerdo en mi mapa mental de la zona). Ya el resto del mundo era impensable-- Sevilla, España, Europa, Siria, Damasco, todo existía en una realidad alternativa, que era pecado recordar hasta el día que se volvía hacia la ciudad, para tomar el avión que nos llevaría a Madrid, donde nos esperaba otro avión hacia el Medio Oriente.
Pasado un rato, despues de comer nuestros bocadillos de nocilla y tomarnos nuestros batidos, alzados por encima del mundo y lejos de todo, volveríamos a bajar la estructura de hormigón para volver hacia el cortijo. Esta vez, entrabamos por la puerta delantera, una puerta de madera verde, de dos metros de ancho y cuatro de alto, pasando primero por los naranjos y limones del patio delantero, donde de día, recogíamos limones para hacer limonada y vendersela a nuestros familiares por un euro facil. De noche, ahí jugabamos al escondite. Eso podíamos hacer después de la excursión a lo alto de la colina.
"Un, dos, tres, PIES." Se salvaba uno de quedarla, se salvaba otro, álguien hacia de comodín y así se elegía al que tendría que buscar a los demás. Mientras ese contaba, los otros corrían a desaparecer detrás de macetas, dentro de arbustos o subidos a la copa de un naranjo. Si álguien te seguía, lo echabas; regía la ley del más fuerte.
Cuando nos llamaba la abuela, el abuelo, o mamá, o papá, o algún tío, entrabamos, bajo un arco que tenía una virgen en la pared, y una farola negra colgando del techo, rodeada de polillas revoloteando. Correteaban a tus alrededores las sombras alargadas de lagartijas, que se podían atrapar, mientras no las agarraras de la cola, que ellas desprendían con facilidad. Entonces nos encontrabamos en el patio central, con un pozo de agua en el medio, y las casas a los lados, que tenían ventanas largas y andaluzas, con persianas verdes, y jazmines y enredaderas con flores rojas en las paredes.
Muchas veces, al atardecer, se podían recoger los jazmines cerrados. Estos se abrían de noche, y el olor ahuyentaba a los mosquitos. Dentro de las plantas de jazmín y las enredaderas se oían trinar a miles de pájaros, gorriones, y si la sacudías, o le pegabas un pelotazo, salían todos en vuelo.
El cielo veraniego era espléndido, y, aunque las puestas de sol eran increibles, cuando más lo disfrutaba era en las noches que salíamos a ver las estrellas. Entonces, con las mellis, las primas segundas con las que jugaba de chico, (no se si ellas disfrutaban, porque yo era bastante mas pequeño que ellas, y podría haber sido una plasta), y con María, hija de Gabriel y Mari, saldríamos en pijama, después de cenar, a tirarnos sobre la piedra con forma de medialuna que había cerca del arbol donde de día hacíamos casas con piedras y mantas por paredes y muebles. Un año, mientras construíamos, se nos acercó una cabra extraviada, y la llevamos hacia el patio del cortijo. Otro, me encontré un escarabajo pelotero dentro de un "florero" de nuestra cabaña -- un ladrillo con flores metidas en los huecos-- y se convirtió en mi mascota.
Alli, en la piedra, cerca del arbol, tirados en la noche, el mundo se hacía pequeño. Solo se veía la oscuridad negra y las estrellas, y se oía solo nuestras voces y las de los grillos. Jugaríamos a identificar constelaciones: las tres marías, las osas mayor y menor, el cazador; y el silencio se apoderaría de nosotros. Me hablaban solo los sonidos nocturnos, y la infinitud del cosmos se desplegaba frente a mis ojos, sentía que caía.
Solo así podía ver que teniendo los problemas que tuviera (tenía miedo a crecer), durara el verano lo poco que duraba, y aunque terminase todo, el universo seguía, y aunque yo no era nada, a la vez lo era todo; el universo era la suma de todas las cosas individuales que cabían en él. Por más que el momento pasara, siempre seguía. Alli arriba, nada cambiaba, y eso me daba la certeza de que sí existe un Dios, y este es el flujo del universo mismo, las expansiones y contracciones que lo impulsan. Aunque llegase Agosto, aunque tuviese que volver, aunque algún día me tuviese que mudar, que crecer, aunque, sin saberlo conscientemente, algún día no tendría Barcena, y no volvería cada verano con mis primos, todos pequeños, todo seguiría ahí, en el universo y en mi memoria.

Sha la la la la la la

2010-02-23T13:33:00.000-08:00

'Cause down the shore everything's all right,

You and your baby on a Saturday night,

You know all my dreams come true

When i'm walking down the street with you

-Bruce Springsteen, Jersey Girl

2010-02-15T19:42:00.000-08:00

de Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

Sentado aquí, en el lecho de mi muerte,
Observando el inmenso mar,
Con un pasaje intransferible, no retornable,
Miro un cadaver por crear.

El barquero nos llama a bordo,
¿Adonde vamos? - Decido preguntar -
¿Podría haber elegido otro destino?
Responde él: Los destinos se forjan al andar,

Este es un barco con rumbo desconocido;
Su tripulación, lista está
Para enfrentarse al vacío,
Asi que, ¡Desplegad las velas, las anclas, izad!

Entonces zarpamos, decididos
A enfrentarnos a lo desconocido,
Pues todo lo conocido de este mundo
No desaparecerá.

2010-02-13T16:44:00.000-08:00

"I'll sing to you of silver swans,
of kingdoms and carillons.
I'll sing of bodies intertwined
underneath an innocent sky."

-Footloose

2010-02-12T16:26:00.000-08:00

by Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

The Syrian trees are speckled with apples,
And you see shades of green and white;
Through the leaves
Spills yellow light.

You feel Impressionist,
Under the eaves
Of a train station flooded with light
Reflected in paint;

Hall through hall,
You see the mottled colours prance
Of a Pissarro or Dancing Degas,
Monet or Manet or Cezanne,

And then Toulouse-Lautrec shows you the night
Of cabaret and caricatures
Composed of lines and light,

And now you are back in an orchard,
Travelling in a car, misplaced,
And the sun shines, through the leaves of trees,
And dances on your face.

Timetravel :)

2010-02-11T12:47:00.000-08:00

Eating

Camwhoreing at grandma's

With papá at the beach

Still camwhoreing

Me preguntan quién me ha influenciado en la vida

2010-02-09T12:46:00.000-08:00

de Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

Me preguntan quién me ha influenciado en la vida,
Y que lo encuadre para que todo el mundo lo vea,
Esperando que deletree cuatro personas que me han querido,
Pero creo que influencia todo conocido-
Toda familia que te cuida en su seno, todo extraño
Que una puerta un día te haya abierto, todo amigo
Que te quiera, quería o que alguna vez hayas querido,
Hasta esa persona que conociste en sueño-
Y quíen sabe, quizás quepa, pero que yo sepa,
Por mi vida ha pasado demasiada gente que yo quiero.

(Para mi half-page en yearbook)

On the Wings of Winged Victory

2010-02-07T08:35:00.000-08:00

by Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

The Goddess Nike watches over us
As we stomp our way through town
On the Wings of winged victory;
See the lights flash above us?

Our path leaves a trace in the concrete,
A yarn that is tracing our steps,
Yet none of these steps we'll repeat,
And soon we'll wonder
How far we had leapt.

Well, to make it this far is a gargantuan feat--
The sparkling drinks, the shining smiles
Are all rendered at Our feet--
We've travelled for miles;

So let us Sing, let us Dance, let us Play,
Let us think ourselves Gods on the street--
For tonight we shall sleep in defeat
And return to inescapable day.

Protruding

2010-02-03T14:15:00.000-08:00

by Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

I like to Feel my protruding sternum
Feel my deformed chest
Repeat and retract
All I’ve said,
Admire the spot
On my finger, purple,
Where Mother
Slammed a car door
When I was little and ran
‘Til I felt no more;

I like to run my hands
Over the hard jags
On my canines,
Where Iron used to be,
Chipping any Nails
That try to remove them,
And then I remember
That chipped tooth,
From Middle School,
Which broke once
Twice
Thrice
Until we realized it had no fix,
And just removed
Replaced
It, and some forgot
But it is different.

Validation

2010-01-31T12:59:00.001-08:00

A short film (not by me).

Mother, Sister, Lover, Friend, Angel, Devil, Earth, Home.

2010-01-25T13:39:00.000-08:00

de Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

Tantaliza la memoria y seduce la razón,
Se Desviste frente a los sentidos
Y da por vencido mi bravo corazón
Una Mujer que no he conocido;

Muévese por los confines de mi mente,
Pisotea mis neuronas con fervor
Mujer de caricias inocentes, intrascendentes,
Mujer que se llama Amor.

2010-01-20T13:29:00.000-08:00

2010-01-16T06:40:00.001-08:00

A hand removing excess skin,
Peeling at the layers,
Ripping at the callous skin I've been in.

Tin can ribbed and oxidised
Melting ice in solid glass
Discarded chopsticks, books in a mass;

A dusty machine spotted with dirt
Playdough, and a dirty shirt
A broken sock - a peeping toe;

All this today I had to throw,
Order, pack and clear,
Put in a box, make disappear.

I threw most of my life away-
Yet today I discovered
That it was barely worth much, anyway.

En el país de los minaretes

2010-01-06T00:18:00.001-08:00

En el País de los Minaretes
de Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

Mi infancia son recuerdos de un jardín de gatos-tigre
Que paseaban por paredes coronadas con cristales
Acechando tortugas y caminando libres
Entre hojas de pasto alto, por los secos matorrales.

Hace tiempo que vimos a las tortugas desaparecer
En el gran país de minaretes y mujeres veladas,
De cantos de Allah ou acbar al anochecer
Y en el mes sagrado, cañonazos al aire, al alba.

Pero cada año aparecen huevos en ese jardín,
Y los gatos miran atentos a su viejo enemigo
Salir y llegar a un mundo impenetrable,
Donde hace tiempo, unos niños habían crecido.

Retrato

2010-01-06T00:18:00.000-08:00

Mi infancia son recuerdos de un patio de Sevilla
y un huerto claro donde madura el limonero;
mi juventud, veinte años en tierra de Castilla;
mi historia, algunos casos que recordar no quiero.
-Antonio Machado, Retrato

2010-01-04T13:07:00.000-08:00

Herbert Ponting, Grotto in an iceberg

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

2009-12-22T23:21:00.001-08:00

I'm leaving to Sevilla until the third, time during which I'll try to get online, but if I do it won't be frequently or for long. So... Have a happy Christmas, a happy new year and I'll see some of you when I get back!!

William Eggleston

2009-12-18T16:14:00.000-08:00

Felipe wishes he could take colour photographs like this. Someday.

Sunday, December 13, 2009

2009-12-13T03:24:00.000-08:00

You're so nice and you're so smart,

You're such a good friend I've got to break your heart

I'll tell you that I love you, then I'll tear your world apart,

Just pretend I didn't tear your world apart.

-Kimya Dawson, So Nice, So Smart

The tree is up, this year we have tacky 'tienda de 20 duros' lights, they shimmer in every colour possible (purple?) and drive me crazy, and all our decorations are 8 years old and broken, but we make it look great anyways, with an shitload of fake snow which left the house smelling toxic for days. The tree also has candy canes--- well, had. I've stolen around 20, and my sister admitted she has too, so now there's around two left, but not for long. We'll buy more soon. They're the real kind, peppermint, and I love sucking on them until it forms a little step when you remove the plastic further up. Then you make a next step, and a next step, and soon the edge is really sharp and stings your tongue, or breaks and you have to start over.

Yesterday I had my first starbucks hot chocolate with caramel of the year, while I was studying for midterms with Olga. I was waiting especially for the cold and yesterday was the perfect chance. Though today is colder. It's so cold outside, you can feel your bones under your fingers. Your nose gets numb, your hands are red, your breath is white. Drafts of cold seep up your tattered pants, your legs freeze.

On the streets, the christmas markets are being assembled where there once were construction sites, and all the stores are decorated. Some streets look really pretty with their lights up too, Urgell has Christmas foods up. Champagne, turkey, roscón de reyes... It's really friendly. Passeig de Gracia has neon chandeliers, ranging from the Corte Ingles, decorated with giant snowflakes, all the way up to the diagonal.

Sick :(

2009-12-08T13:01:00.001-08:00

Amor,
by Felipe Alvarez de Toledo

Al despertar en plena noche
en medio de la oscuridad,
inhalas, y no puedes respirar;
Te intentan robar la vida
las láminas de saliva y
de flema que se forjan al tragar,

Y solo te puedes esperar
a que venga El Amanecer,
para enlazar palabras mudas
Y rezar que sepan entender,
trayendo rayos de promesas
a tu voz altiva que no logra gritar.

I shall be pretentious and title this poem 'Amor'.

:)
But it also describes my current feverish and swollen-tonsilled state!
(Extra extra long weekend, I'm taking a sick day tomorrow)

Update: During my sick day, Your photostream 183 items / 3,013 views
Yess!! Flickr reached three thousand.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/shoot_theradio/

In that small café, the park across the way,

2009-12-02T13:03:00.000-08:00

I'll be seeing you

In all the old familiar places

That this heart of mine embraces

All day throooughh

The children's carrousels,

The chestnut trees,

The wishing well...

-Billie Holiday, I'll be seeing you

Got my pictures developed :)

2009-11-28T15:14:00.000-08:00

... But my scanner does not obey. Here's a preview, shot with my trusty webcam:

Monday, November 23, 2009

2009-11-23T14:00:00.000-08:00

Attending school only physically-- My soul is in some far-off land, deep in sleep.

The World Was Moving

2009-11-18T13:14:00.000-08:00

And she was lying in the grass,
And she could hear the highway breathing,
And she could see a nearby factory.
She's making sure that she's not dreaming.
See the light in the neighbour's house,
Now she's starting to rise,
Take a minute to concentrate,
And she opens up her eyes.
-The Talking Heads , And She Was

Our generation is one that is spoilt and accustomed to getting anything they want without working for it, believing in their rights without earning them. We're a group of people characterised for knowing who we are, and being faithful to ourselves, but if we do not do anything with this gift that we have, are we getting anywhere?
For years now I have been jealous of other generations, because they all had a clear identity. Upon reading the papers a few days ago, I realised our generation is THE generation where finally we can be who we please! Never before has there been this much liberty to follow your heart, at least among members of the same age groups. However, if we don't take this to the next level, we are nothing. We must organise, become a whole and use all our talents (which just become more and more diversified) for the greater good.
What this greater good might be, I'm unsure of. We've been spoonfed all our lives, absorbing family money without knowing the value of a dollar (or euro, or yen, or peso). We must become conscious that we too will take part in the real world, only this way we shall survive. Since material satisfaction is greatest nowadays, we should focus on leading our society away from its evils. Destroy consumerism, once again cultivate unity and altruism, working together and helping each other out, and not being obsessed with money and objects but also directing ourselves to exploring ourselves and others and the spiritual joys of life.
However, a revolution is not just demonstrating. Nowadays, demonstrating only stops traffic and annoys neighbours. We must find new ways of making our voices heard. They need not be violent and they definitely must not be cliché. In fact, a revolution can be started from inside our homes, I bet: you just must speak your point of view and establish connections with those that feel the same, making the group larger and larger. Express it publicly, privately, nobody can stop you.
Students that start demonstrations are just hypocrites, demonstrations do nothing, especially when a sentiment is not heartfelt or for the wrong reasons (read, the people that protested against the Plan Bolonya last year-- pseudo-1968ers who try to avoid hard work).
What is worst about our generation is the conformity and the hypocresy, in the sense that somehow we all think we have ideals (like open-mindedness) and we really don't. I don't really understand why everybody feels that they are all open-minded when they are not. To me, this is the biggest issue, the falsity with which things are done. One must combat the schools that pay no attention to them because they don't do IB (even though they pay the same amount as any IB student), the people patronising enough to make you feel you have a say when you don't, the people who talk a lot but do little, the people who talk a lot but believe little (one can tell when somebody does not know what he's talking about).
You should say what you believe, believe with all your might, but not with blind eyes, and you should put those you believe are wrong into doubt. Also, you have to try to extend your viewpoint and get others to support you and extend it themselves. In turn, this will spawn new ideas for bringing about change, and only this way will we get any progress, and stop living in a hypocrite politically correct society where we let our days fly by for financial and social success. Look for the truth and have everybody around you looking, share ideas and form a global philosophy, and let humanity take that final step towards civilisation. Let us escape consumerism and enter a new era.

Two for One (in chronological order)

2009-11-16T10:53:00.000-08:00

Watch first:

Watch second:

Life Dreams

2009-11-15T02:49:00.000-08:00

1) Own an enlarger (for negatives, do not misinterpret).
2) Own a bar
3) Become a famous actor who is actually good at what he does, and does photography on the side
4) ...Become a doctor

p.s. readers you suck for nobody reading or at least commenting my complaints about the school.

The School Spirit

2009-11-11T13:44:00.000-08:00

One wonders how in an American School (the United States being the self-proclaimed land of the free and/or brave) he finds himself under the constant illusion he has an opinion but are never asked for it. It occurs on every level: between students, between students and their representatives, and between students and their teachers.
Let me pose various examples:
First, take into consideration the 12th graders and their graduation trip. A small group is set on Ibiza, and just this week a meeting was held without prior notice (well, there was talk about holding a meeting, but no dates) in which we were told the options, of which Ibiza was described as the only one valid because it was the only one they had prepared, giving us ballpark figures of location and price. Although it sounded great, there was a sense of manipulation around the whole ordeal.
Then there is the student council. I have nothing to say about the candidates themselves, our president is probably the most qualified for her post. However, when were we asked who we wanted to represent us (besides the class representatives, whose role is less significant, I suppose, than that of the president)? I have been told that “after middle school, we do not vote for our president”. Does that then not make him a monarch, or a dictator? And when were we asked if we wanted our year’s theme to be sustainability, or whether we wanted the flick the switch campaign to be implemented? (Some of us do like to learn with a source of light).
Then there is the sudden interest the teachers have in bringing Barack Obama to the school, and how we are obliged to write him a letter. This is a person I have nothing to say to, as I know fairly little of his policies (basically, I would say that I thank him for being the first black president- which really does not say anything about his qualifications as president, or inspire me to want him to come to our school in the first place. The only reason I might want him to come is as a mere curiousity, or to use the anecdote as an icebreaker at parties). The letter incident is interesting, and is completely blown out of proportion. Today, the parent of one of my seedlings came up to me and said: “Remember you have to write a letter to Obama.” I nodded, though I have no intention of doing so. I believe that this school, which considers itself so democratic, should stop telling us we’re compelled to do anything. Anything we do, even in the classroom, is out of free will—because we want to pass, because we want to take the path in life that leads to college, because we agree with its base philosophy.
Another example of this is the peace sign photo we were also forced to participate in. I personally went voluntarily, because it could not hurt and there is no need to be unnecessarily uncooperative. However, a friend of mine who wanted to study and also hadn’t the slightest interest in participating, was forced by a teacher to go down and pose in a picture where one person less would not have made a difference. On this note, I have been informed that one of the kids in said photograph actually posed middle finger in the air. To you, I tip my hat (no names will be said, but you know who you are).
The kid who “flipped Obama the bird” is probably what we should be aiming to have in this school society. He probably didn’t do it for the reasons I’d like, but still it is a small demonstration that we can do what we want. It really makes no difference to us if we are forced to do senseless things or not, but what bothers me is the lack of respect towards the student (oh, and the slight hypocrisy). You can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar, I think, and we are the flies that constitute our school. One would think that Obama’s coming would be for our enlightenment and as such we would be allowed to say If we actually cared if he came or not. One would also think that voting for a trip a whole grade participates in once in a lifetime would not be manipulated. One would expect students to have a bigger say in choosing their representatives.

Blossom on the tree, you know how I feel.

2009-11-08T14:15:00.001-08:00

Dragonfly out in the sun, you know what I mean, don't you know?

Butterflies all having fun, you know what I mean.

Sleep in peace when day is done, that's what I mean,

And this whole world is a new world,

And a bold world,

For me.

-Nina Simone, Feelin' Good

7 - Doing the Time Warp

2009-10-31T09:39:00.000-07:00

The King of Pop

2009-10-30T13:22:00.001-07:00

Halloween '09, SENIORS.

Michael Jackson Tribute

(Video shall be uploaded soon.)

Guardian Angels

2009-10-24T15:37:00.000-07:00

Bell rings, he dumps his books atop his locker and runs to fetch his lunchbox. A long day, tiring stretches of class after class after class and only a few faces to talk to and trust. He has to sprint to the doctor now, on the other side of the city. He plugs his headphones in, and walks downhill to the tram. Today's weather is nice, cool but sunny. Yesterday it had been downpouring, and he had eaten candy with his sister in the rain. The colours would melt onto their hands and faces, unintentionally tie-dyeing their clothes.
After a long tram ride, he hops off and takes the bus. Then, after a long bus ride, he walks several streets. The hospital is near his house, and he's been to it several times, but he never manages to find it. He ends up somewhere on Floridablanca and now he knows he's too far. A few metres ahead he sees a woman strolling with a Down's Syndrome teen. He walks behind them, and knows he has to ask somebody where Calle Manso is. He accelerates, and when he stops to talk to them he realises they were speaking in English. So he asks:
"Sorry, do you guys know the way to, uhm, Calle Manso?"
The mother responds, "Oh! Well, we're going that way, we can take you. Are you going to the hospital?" A conversation starts. The guy asks "Mom, is he a friend?" His mom responds that he's just an acquaintance, possibly to spare him the embarassment. The boy asks "But what's his name?" His mom tells him to ask him himself, and he does. "Felipe", he responds. "Felipe... Hi, my name's Scott."
Once we got to the hospital I thanked them, and said bye to Scott. I wanted to ask for their phone number, or give them mine, but I was embarassed. Was it right to do so, or would it make me look like a stalker? I don't know, but I didn't, and I honestly regret it. Things like this make me wonder if, on the most unsuspecting of days, there are people up there who lay everything out for you, but leave you to take care of what they have laid out. Many a time things have worked way too perfectly on the strangest of days, those days where you're about to lose hope and don't really expect anything great to happen but embrace them for their normality. I do regret not giving them a phone number, taking Scott out to the movies one day, becoming friends. I do regret it, and if I could go back I would skip out on social conventions and take the risk. I'm hoping that, on another day like yesterday, the stars will align and another small miracle will occur, somewhere.

Broken Glass

2009-10-21T13:30:00.000-07:00

Abismo

2009-10-18T09:33:00.000-07:00

Today, I write in Spanish.

Urgencias. Uno entra, imaginandose una larga espera, pero es atendido en cuestion de minutos (es domingo, es temprano, no hay otra explicación). Recibe una pulsera con sus datos, las puntas del adhesivo se le agarran a la piel, sigue las lineas amarillas en el suelo y toma un ascensor negro, subiendo hasta el cuarto piso del abismo para encontrarse en
Traumatología/Otorrinolaringología. Después de hablar con la secretaria, desemboca en otra sala de espera. Las paredes son de baldosas de un marrón feo hasta la mitad, donde sigue con la pared pintada del blanco tradicional, típico de edificios de principios de siglo. Las ventanas son de un vidrio opaco, otorgandole al hospital un aspecto lúgubre poco apropiado para un sitio a donde la gente se viene a curar.
Hay diez sillas, aproximadamente, y en aproximadamente cada una de ellas se encuentran (aproximadamente) diez personas. Lo primero que uno ve son los ojos rojos de un paquistaní que se sujeta la mano fuertemente con un pañuelo. Las tres ancianas del grupo son las más charlatanas, y se dedican a conversar con una joven sentada a un ángulo de noventa grados de ellas que va con el novio. Hay un par de personas más, y estamos yo y mi padre, de pie. Se reconocen los doctores de urgencias, que vuelan por el hospital con sillas y tumbonas que teleportan pacientes ensangrentados y heridos. Pasa uno con el pie enyesado y con una uña bastante decrépita.
El paquistaní (en Barcelona cualquier persona de piel oscura y acento extraño es paquistaní, y dueño de una tienda) está llorando. Intenta explicar algo entre sollozos: aparentemente, se cortó el dedo.
Uf, piensa uno.
-No, no, pero no solo se cortó el dedo...
Dice la vieja sentada a su izquierda. La joven pregunta si se trajo el pedazo de dedo.
El paquistaní explica que estaba con una maquina de embutidos, y que se lo cortó hasta la mitad de la uña.
Traduce la vieja de la izquierda:
-Es que el dedo quedó triturado, no quedó pedazo. Por eso duele más.

Dicen mi nombre, y después de echarme bronca porque lo mío no es urgencia (concuerdo, y culpo a mis padres por haberme llevado-- mi madre insistió después que igualmente una infección me podía perforar el oído) me dicen que vuelva a la sala de espera, porque el doctor tardará ("Y más aún por lo tuyo", me dice la enfermera).
Ahora solo habla la anciana alfa (la que una vez estuvo al lado del paquistaní- él ya no está más, y ha habido un reagrupamiento de asientos, todas las viejas se sientan juntas). Su marido se rompió el pie y se hirió la cabeza porque no quería soltar un vaso cuando se cayó por las escaleras. Ahí caí en que era el de la uña chunga. Anteriormente, la doctora le había estado retando. "Otra vez el vaso? Mejor que se rompa el vaso antes de que se le rompa la cabeza", decía.
La esposa de este hombre también había dicho nosequé sobre algo 'metastasisando', y honestamente espero por lo menos que no hablara de su esposo, justo era lo que le faltaba. Ella había perdido sueño por todo esto la noche pasada.
Ahora llaman a que pase el novio de la joven. A él se le había caido una lampara en la cabeza. Estaba mareado. Eso, en realidad, es peligroso, ya que se le podría formar un hematoma, y este le podría bloquear la sangre a alguna parte del cerebro, causando un derrame. "A mi amiga le pasó", dice una vieja secundaria. "¿Ha sangrado? Mejor que sangre," dice otra.
Han traido, en silla de ruedas, a un hombre que había visto en urgencias. Este se había caido de una bicicleta, era uno de los pacientes softcore, como yo. La verdad es que los pacientes de este hospital tenían todos algo que contar, pero sus historias no me daban pena, ni miedo o asco, sino ganas de escuchar más. Lo que sí impresionaba eran las baldosas aquellas marrones, y la luz turbadora que impregnaba al lugar, que parecía oscurecer más que iluminar.
Pasa una vieja en camilla con una venda ensangrentada en la frente, flotando con uno de los doctores que vuelan por el hospital. Le señalo la hora a mi padre, nos tenemos que ir. Cancelamos el turno y bajamos por unas escaleras metalicas, oscuras, rodeadas de baldosas marrones...

Just as phoney as it could be...

2009-10-14T12:26:00.000-07:00

"I don't want realism. I'll tell you what I want. Magic!... Yes, yes, magic! I try to give that to people. I misinterpret things to them. I don't tell truth, I tell what ought to be truth. And if that is sinful, then let me be damned for it! "

-Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Named Desire

6 - Stepping Out of my Comfort Zone by Dubious Means

2009-10-12T12:22:00.000-07:00

Marilyn Monroe

2009-10-07T14:19:00.000-07:00

Okay, so the days are now much better than Sunday - Monday (haha okay, I see my depression period was short). Well, today I just have one question. Seeing as how popular my last entries were--0 comments, thank you-- I would like some responses... Well, you do know my obsession with golden age movie stars. Sorry for the cliché topic and person.

Now, do you think
It would be worth it
To give up your name, your hair, your eyes, your face, just erase yourself, to go from Norma Jeane to Marilyn Monroe?

I haven't thought about this in a long time (seeing as my obsession with becoming a legend is mostly smothered by now), but I don't know. You would live a damned life, but it would be beautiful. And who cares about how you feel, you don't live forever! But the memory of you does, and that would be one of perfection. Yet again, people wouldn't remember you, they'd just remember that image (although that will happen even with your true persona, but the image you're remembered by each person will be more like your true self).

Ah, the beautiful and the damned.

2009-10-05T12:07:00.000-07:00

Made a mistake in my life today
everything I love gets lost in drawers.
I want to start over, I want to be winning,
way out of sync from the beginning...

Oh, I just did so bad in calculus, leaving half an exam blank, and not quite getting nice results in anything else. I'm so stressed... and confuseed (dazed and confused).

And not only because of academics.

(I do apologise for the moodiness of late posts, many of you know why it is. If you don't, tough love. Oh, and my summer pictures are developed, but I cannot scan them. I'm really looking forward to doing so, though).

I wanna hurry home to you,
put on a slow, dumb show for you,
and crack you up.
So you can put a blue ribbon on my brain,
God I’m very, very frightening
I’ll overdo it...
-The National, Slow Show

What's this I hear?

2009-10-04T06:29:00.000-07:00

Distance makes the heart grow weak.

No, no shapes at all,

Nothing real or artificial,

No energy or heat,

No troughs, there are no peaks...

-Empire of the Sun, Without You

Way Back When

2009-09-30T09:06:00.001-07:00

Time is ceasing to function,
Days are double their past length,
The road trip’s incomplete.
The hourglass has a leak,
Fuck this,
My memory is weak,
The mind is losing strength,
And way back then is merely
In rearview mirrors, reflections bleak.

I reckon that I should probably have been studying instead of writing this, but days are long and I just need a break... One last test to go....
I decided to write a poem, but it's strange that you always return to the same dark place, that you sort of think you feel was done with but know isn't, quite, not all the time. There's just places you can save yourself the visit to, or have to to keep on going.

(Oh, and the poem-- maybe not my best-- actually looks like a sandclock when you centre it, i thought that was cool) (although tacky).

Update: I centred it anyway.

UK Personal Statement: unrevised.

2009-09-29T13:05:00.000-07:00

My Mind is a tabula rassa, fill it.

Medicine is, to tell the truth, only a recent dream for me. After 17 years of wandering the globe, as I was born in Egypt to diplomat parents and proceeded to live in Argentina (my father’s homeland), Syria, Argentina again and finally Spain (my mother’s homeland), I finally opted for this course. I cannot state precisely how it happened.
My sciences always have been strong, but the arts always did seem to interest me more. I’ve always been an apt artist, and though lately I don’t have the time to draw or paint I do still show an interest for film photography. I’ve also always been an avid reader of classics and try to write on occasion. My mother has always feared that I would pursue something within those parameters, possibly film.
Yet I also have always been a top student in Biology, Chemistry and Physics, though I might say that the last interests me the least. In Biology, however, I did attend the National Olympics in Rio Cuarto, Cordoba, and my team ended up eighth place. The following year I was requested for a second participation, but could not go due to scholastic and family issues. This time the team arrived at first place. The experience of travelling there one year and preparing to do so the next, however, were wonderful and helped me grow as a person.
I consider Argentina the point in my life where I transitioned from a spoiled child who had lived among the wealthiest Syrian children to a better-rounded individual, a time where I developed my cultural and emotional knowledge. It was at this time when I took an interest in old movies, and when my scientific base was established. It was a time of excess hormones, a time of extreme poles that had to be resolved in order to get to what I now am. However, it was also a time in which I thought it was pretty clear I would not be choosing any career related to the sciences.
Then I moved to Barcelona. It always had been a childhood dream to live in Spain, my mother’s homeland, in which we spent all our summers (though, I must say, in the south). I did not want to move. Leaving Argentina was the final step in becoming who I know am, the future Med-student.
I guess the change is too recent to analyse just yet. Maybe someday I shall realise what the precise instant was, but for sure one of the factors had to do with me realising the humanitarian aspect of science is, and I do think it is found in the art of medicine. I would like to thank my best friend Maria, as I believe it was through her that I found this. She has dreamt of being a pediatrician all her life, and seeing the passion in her and her determination to reach her dreams definitely were an inspiration to me, to say the least, and also did help me see the human side of medicine I once did not.
Certainly one of my strengths is dealing with and understanding people, and though I do this in a unique way and do sometimes need some space to understand myself, through medicine and in University in the UK I will be able to establish bonds with various people and help them out through their rough times, as they will help me learn also, be it friends, professors, or future patients and co-workers.
It is strange that through the writing of this essay (and though this sounds cliché, I promise I intend nothing of the sort) I have actually found the reason why I want to go through the long process of studying and practise to one day become a doctor. After all these years (and paragraphs) of arts, sciences, family, friends, and finding oneself, I have realised that life is my passion, and that through medicine I know I can find the perfect way to channel my energy into helping others and becoming a better professional myself. Though I will not give up my other passions, or live with one hand tied behind my back, I shall take this path to find happiness, somewhere.

Note: The first page was intended as a stupid joke I wasn’t even gonna print out, but I think I’ll send it in too... Just to show that learning can come anytime, anyplace.

5 - College

2009-09-28T14:04:00.000-07:00

Update: I finished my personal statement for the UK!!! I got quite inspired, so I shall post the unedited version here tomorrow, but we shall see what Ms. Young changes.

Life is too Important!

2009-09-26T02:07:00.000-07:00

Cemetery Pere-Lachaise, the tomb of Oscar Wilde.

Mercy, Mercè.

2009-09-22T15:30:00.000-07:00

Hello, Upper East Siders.

Haha, just kidding.

Tomorrow is the eve before la Mercè, Barcelona's patron saint's day ( if that made any sense), which is a school holiday. Clearly, this ensues a party. So, with an asian dinner and the traditional forum reunion at hand, and with the whole senior class attending as a group, will things get interesting? Let's hope so.

I'm sorry I'm a little late,
I got your message, by the way.
I'm calling in sick today,
So let's go out, for old time's sake...
- The Noisettes, Never Forget You

On the Road (Again)

2009-09-17T16:22:00.001-07:00

Ripples in the upside-down lake of the void, is what I should have said. The bottom of the world is gold and the world is upside down.
-Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Facebook stati (statuses).

2009-09-14T14:46:00.000-07:00

Maria Bernaus is very very excited about Gossip Girl tonight
37 minutes ago · Comment · Like / Unlike
You and Cecilia Winter like this.

Erica Moore: YAYY!!
same here im like ahhh hahaha
28 minutes ago

Helena Martinez: gossip girl? what channel? the cw?
28 minutes ago

Felipe Alvarez De Toledo: hahaahha
24 minutes ago · Delete

Maria Bernaus: yes at 9. who are you helena martinez?
13 minutes ago

Felipe Alvarez De Toledo: it is I, in my alter-ego form.
8 minutes ago · Delete

Felipe Alvarez De Toledo: (please note i'm kidding)
8 minutes ago · Delete

Helena Martinez: eings? who is who? I'm lost. I don't know u, at least as far as I know, I was just wondering after seeing your status
5 minutes ago

4 - Senior Year

2009-09-13T03:59:00.000-07:00

Oh, one last thing to look forward to: graduation. :)

A feeling of...

2009-09-10T13:48:00.000-07:00

It seems that as an international kid you always leave things behind, leave things halfway, be it friendships, schools, or leaving things unspoken. I've already switched from IB to the Spanish 'selectividad', leaving this halfway without even changing countries, let alone classrooms and hallways. I feel a complete sense of unaccomplishment with everything I do, and it is my mother that has made me realise this is what's been bugging me about the program change I am facing.
On monday I start.
So now, I've just left behind 1 year of intense work that had so far worked out great, and I'd gotten really good scores on my IB assessments. Yet I chickened out before the end. Is this something I shall be doing all my life?
On the other hand, I didn't really have much of a choice. I was faced with going on with IB, finishing the knowledge I was acquiring through my classes with the teachers I loved, or giving up the dream of doing Medicine. (You see, the IB conversion to Spanish grades is shit, and there is no way possible I'd have gotten into the course with IB, seeing as a 40, a high grade, translates to an 8.6 or less, and also I just couldn't keep up with the extra work I had to do plus the IB assignments). So do I really face no-choice situations in life and just feel guilty about something I had no say in? I just feel that it's always the same cycle, and I've never stopped it. I shall always continue to be afraid of commitment and carrying things out and actually saying (or explicitly feeling) 'I miss you' or 'I will miss you' or 'You're an amazing friend'.
It feels like on that topic I just steer away from emotion and normally face people completely cold-- well, let me clarify. I like listening to people, I like getting to understand them and I think I do this with a variety of people and not for any social motives, but just because I can. On the other hand, I do this without getting attached to them, or most of them, and just see it as a normal moment. When I do get attached to someone, I either fail to realise until it's too late or I fail to say it, no matter how much I try. I want to get out of that fear but so far have not been able to.
As for IB, I guess I really didn't have a choice. There's tons of things I want to do in life, and Medicine is one of them, and it brings me stability and the strength to move on (as one can see with my IB grades). But then why don't I feel satisfied with this answer? Mother's probably right, yet will this spiral ever end?
On the other hand, I can view Medicine as the big picture that I haven't given up on or left behind, and I am looking forward to the lifestyle of selectividad. But I'm still pretty uneasy...

Just letting you all know I'm alive

2009-09-08T10:42:00.000-07:00

(This isn't even up on youtube, and was filmed in one shot)

Please do read my post below and comment on either.

IB

2009-09-08T09:22:00.001-07:00

At the moment it seems like I shall be leaving IB. Truth is, the International Baccalaureate grew on me, and I was doing really well in my classes, besides enjoying them. I'm actually going to miss the teachers and wanted to learn everything there was to learn, especially in Econ and Psych. But the time has come to talk of many things, of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings, and why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings...

I'm kind of shell-shocked here. But I've known this for a long time, and I couldn't keep up with the strenuous pace of the IB and try to prepare myself for medicine and all it required that my choice in the IB didn't offer. I suppose I'm making the right decision. (And if I'm not?)

I'm going to miss Math Standard, with Ms. Rowland's stories, which are going to be replaced by Ms. Puyuelo (however one spells that) and her voice.

Should I indeed change? Oh wow, this is just bizarre.

2009-09-02T16:30:00.000-07:00

... And we'd left our love in our summer skin.

O-Day.

2009-09-01T23:30:00.000-07:00

"Summer days are supposed to be longer, but they sure seem short to ME. "
"I'll say, we didn't get to do half our itinerary."