civ. we used to be

ciii. vegvisir

Aplicado en un punto,

En medio de la tormenta imprevista de nubosidad variable

Desorientado, pero

Radiante,

Vívido,

Extático.

Amarrado a la carcoma de un timón desarbolado,

Irreductible,

Determinado a superar el cruce de caminos,

El hiato,

El Cabo de Hornos,

La campaña de invierno,

El accidentado paso de montaña,

En medio de un vendaval de odiosa crueldad 

Y estéril competencia.

Pero invicto.

El Vegvísir es un símbolo mágico que pretende guiar a las personas durante una jornada de mal tiempo y poca visibilidad.¹ También llamado «poste de guía», «señal de dirección» o la «brújula vikinga». El registro más antiguo conservado de la existencia del vegvísir es el grimorioGaldrabók, un compendio del siglo XVII.

Para otras brújulas fino-ugrias consultar

cii. lateralus

09:36:50 AM Nacho___: nice theory about fibonacci series...

09:37:06 AM Nacho___: I learn something new with you today

09:38:26 AM alma_aries: glad to hear that

08:49:21 AM alma_aries: welcome to my pvt room

08:49:25 AM Nacho___: hi again alma

08:49:38 AM alma_aries: what can i do for you darling?

08:49:52 AM Nacho___: something fun

08:50:05 AM Nacho___: something a little dirty

'Sur ta chevelure profonde
Aux âcres parfums
Mer odorante et vagabonde
Aux flots bleus et bruns'

Mi querida Raquel,

Perdona que te vuelva a escribir en estos tiempos tan lejanos. Sin duda, resulta trivial y bastante absurdo hacerlo hoy, pero he estado ocupado los últimos 20 años tratando de encontrar buenas preguntas.

En primer lugar quería darte de nuevo las gracias. Gracias por los momentos de excitación y de placer no consumados que tuve contigo. Me gustaría pensar que tuvimos, pero dudo de que sintieras lo mismo por mí. Esto último muy a mi pesar, pero no te dejabas fácilmente.

En segundo lugar, y esto es un reproche, lamento que fueras tan egoísta. Sé que improvisabas un juego diferente conmigo, pero cambiarme las reglas del partido en cada encuentro no era muy justo que digamos. En realidad no le doy ni le di mucha importancia, el tiempo me ha enseñado a reconocer las cosas valiosas de la vida, y haber corrido por los pasillos para tratar de fingir un encuentro casual contigo no lo era.

Respecto a esa carta… Gracias por el esfuerzo. Y qué mal he sabido perdonar durante toda mi vida… Te debo una profunda disculpa al no haber respondido a tu mensaje. Era quizás una llamada de auxilio, y no estuve a la altura.

Lo último que te quería decir es que no te culpo por nada de lo que ocurrió. Los dos éramos muy jóvenes y aún no habíamos aprendido a conseguir lo que queríamos. Nos escondíamos detrás de personajes ridículos que nos impedían ver y entender. Sé que no te entendí entonces. Buscaba en ti lo que tú no podías ofrecerme. Y tú buscabas en donde no podías encontrar, quizás porque huías de algo de tí misma, o quizás por alguna otra razón que nunca conoceré, si es que la había.

Por cierto, y ya que monologamos de todo un poco… No recuerdo habernos reído juntos nunca. Eso quizás sí que era sintomático, ¿verdad?

c. The book of the hidden chamber

        

        Amduat, 5th hour 

        

        'She, who guides

         in the midst of her bark' 

    'Winged serpent:

    

    What he has to do

    is to guard his image'

    http://www.lostchord.org/amduat5.html

    So, I do

xcix. Live oak, with moss

Calamus-Leaves.  Live Oak, with Moss.

           I. 

Not the heat flames up and consumes, 
Not the sea-waves hurry in and out, 
Not the air, delicious and dry, the air of 
          the ripe summer, bears lightly along 
          white down-balls of myriads of seeds, 
          wafted, sailing gracefully, to drop 
          where they may, 
Not these—O none of these, more than the 
          flames of me, consuming, burning for 
          his love whom I love—O none, more 
          than I,  hurrying in and out; 
Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and 
          never give up?—O I, the same, to
          seek my life-long lover; 
O nor down-balls, nor perfumes, nor the high
          rain-emitting clouds, are borne through
          the open air, more than my copious 
          soul is borne through the open air, 
          wafted in all directions, for friendship, 
          for love.—

II. I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing,  All alone stood it, and the moss hung down            from the branches,  Without any companion it grew there,            glistening out with joyous leaves of            dark green,  And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made            me think of myself;  But I wondered how it could utter joyous            leaves, standing alone there without its            friend, its lover- -For I knew I could            not;  And I plucked a twig with a certain number            of leaves upon it, and twined around it            a little moss, and brought it  away —            And I have placed it in sight in my            room,

It is not needed to remind me as of my            friends, (for I believe lately I think of           little else than of them,)  Yet it remains to me a curious token - it             makes me think of manly love, I write         these              pieces and name them after it ;  For all that, and though the treelive oak            glistens there in Louisiana, solitary in a            wide flat space, uttering joyous leaves            all its life, without a friend, a lover,            near - I know very well I could not.           III. When I heard at the close of the day how I            had been praised in the Capitol, still it            was not a happy night for me that            followed;  And else Nor when I caroused — Or  —Nor^when my  ^favorite plans were            accomplished — it was I really happy,             was well enough — Still I was not            happy;  But the the theat^ thatday when whenI rose at           dawn from the bed of perfect health,            electric, inhaling sweet breath,  When I saw the full moon in the west grow            pale and disappear in the morning            light,  When I wandered alone over the beach, and            undressing, bathed, laughing with the            waters, and saw the sun rise,And when I thought how my friend, my lover,          was coming, then O^ I was happy;  O tThen eEach breath tasted sweeter—and            all that day my food nourished me            more—And the beautiful day passed            well,  And the next came with equal joy—And with           the next, at evening, came my friend,  And that night, while all was still, I heard the            waters roll slowly continually up the            shores  I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and            sands, as directed to me, whispering,            to congratulate me,—For the friend I            love lay sleeping by my side,  In the stillness his face was inclined towards            me, while the moon's clear beams            shone, And his arm lay lightly over my            breast—And that night I was happy.

[...]

http://www.whitmanarchive.org/manuscripts/liveoak.html

xcviii. Sweat pouring off her neck

'Doing what you like is freedom, liking what you do is happiness'

'I love dance battle'


Every time, Anne tried a little harder. She pushed once and again, straightening and stiffening her legs to work buttocks and hamstrings until fulfilling the complete series.

Then, panting, drenched in sweat, she sat up from the mat and walked down the hall, toward the pane, to look through the window, and, so, catch the blurred reflection of herself.

97. Inertia

Inertia sounds like the name of a newly privatised energy company. If it was, you wouldn't want to get your energy from them. In real life, inertia is what stops things happening and it's the driving force behind procrastination.

Procrastination is vertical gravity. It is a powerful force that prevent us getting on with things. This force is particularly evident in beds, armchairs and offices, where it can keep things not happening for hours if not days. Entry-level procrastination is when you put something today that you could quite easily do tomorrow. Advanced procrastination is when you put off the putting-off until tomorrow.

For every season to do something, there are six reasons not to do it. Trying to think of a seventh is the seventh. In the workplace, more than half the cups of tea and coffee consumed in the average day are made to avoid doing something more important. With meetings, roughly half are to avoid actual work. In fact, a good few jobs are there to avoid life itself being lived.

96. renacimiento

El mutismo no nos otorga la libertad.

Nuestros silencios sólo invocan la desesperada muerte.

Creo firmemente en la necesidad que surge desde el vértigo.

Esa necesidad que adquiere textura, que se vuelve grito.

Un grito es la grafía primera que adoptamos cuando nacemos.

Nuestro pensamiento es una sinfonía cacofónica

De vítores que se pierden en la longitud del tiempo…

Nuestras acciones perduran, pero son las palabras las que las completan.

La voz es la vida que se vuelve consciente.

xcv. collarme

The worst part of experienced travels is, at last, you must stop for peeing.

No matter the farther you run away. You ever carry yourself with you.

Everything is a fake in here. This confinement freely chosen…

xciv. Imposible huida

Lo malo de los viajes liberadores es que antes o después, siempre tienes que detenerte para hacer un pis.

Por muy lejos que quieras huir de tu contexto, siempre arrastras a ti mismo contigo.

Todo es falso aquí. Este confinamiento libremente elegido.

Nude, Neema laid-back in the dusty sofa sited in the midst of the dim room. Doors remain still opened. ‘Now, please me.’ She commands.


Kneeled, he gets down on her feet.


Leisurely he starts washing each bare foot with a soaked lime sponge. The same gorgeous pinky feet than after he rubs with rough white towels.


Neema smokes. He knows pretty well how important will be for her approval to pick a bright color accurately matched with her clothing. He applies the first coat of a dark cherry red in a tipped toe nail. Then, the second layer of shiny polish. He lets it dry. The evening seems to keep muggy through a casement without windows.


He must wait for a while before massaging them with an over-sweet vanilla oil… He covers the heel, toes and most areas below the ankle on the foot, making circular motions with his dump thumbs and fingers over the sole of her feet... squeezing carefree every little toe... For a moment he is roughly sucking a ringed big toe and licking between fingers, rousing every nerve ending connected with the entire body... Fired up, still inhaling smoke, she throws the cigarette butt into the basin’ water, and puts the other foot over his nape...


Children are still playing in the TV room. The old wooden beams are creaking over their heads. Finally He puts her feet on the Swarovski's inlayed shoes placed beside them.


'Princess. You got it.' He says.


She stands up just dressed in her four inches heels.


'Good job, my sweet boy.' 'So, now, you like wash my asshole, don’t you? Hm'

May 910 840 280

92. un cheque en blanco

Raquel,

Te escribo desde la distancia del tiempo. Quizás pueda parecer una ironía. Para crear una pequeña flor la naturaleza ha necesitado un viaje de eras.

Que me escribieras cuando ya estaba todo perdido fue para mí un motivo de alegría.

A veces tuve contigo la sensación de tocar el fuego. Pero un fuego que no quemaba. Fuiste conmigo como una llama apagada, ardiente aún en su interior, pero todo cenizas en su superficie.

No sé cómo te habrá tratado la vida durante todos estos años. Recuerdo hoy tu piel como si fuera ayer. Decías entonces que cicatrizaba mal. Siempre lo interpreté en un doble sentido, que tus cicatrices eran tanto externas como internas. Pero nunca me dijiste con qué filo te provocabas los cortes… Imagino que los años habrán hecho su trabajo. Tus cicatrices de hoy puede que sean abisales…

Siempre te sentí lejana y próxima. Eras el espíritu fuerte y libre al que siempre deseé someterme. Te temía y deseaba a partes iguales. Fuiste una fuerza inspiradora para mí. Tal vez por eso, o porque no me viste mirarte, nunca te tuve.

Siento que contigo tuve una oportunidad perdida. Yo no estaba lo bastante despierto para entenderte. Tú no estabas lo bastante segura para desplegar tus alas. Pero los dos sentíamos la energía fluir entre nosotros… Y aunque yo durmiera, estaba dispuesto a comprender sin hacer preguntas.

Raquel, a mí no me interesaba tu escaparate de princesa. Yo quería tu médula, estar en el preciso vientre de tus necesidades, quería habitar en él, no poseerlo. Y estar en él sin ahogarte, sin hacer ruido apenas, sólo para tí.

No quisiste mostrarme tu penumbra… Créeme, por terribles que fueran tus sectretos, no serían peores entonces que los míos de ahora.

Ojalá un día pueda volver a ver tu rostro y tu luz entre la multitud de espectros que pasan por mi vida. Te diría entonces lo que aquí te digo ahora, y que debí decirte en su momento.

Que te amé, que soñé tener a tu lado una vida prohibida y libre, que aceptaba los términos de tu contrato, tu desdén, tus silencios, tus caprichos, que mi piel era un cheque en blanco para tí, que no habría reproches y que tú eras la única y legítima dueña de mi tiempo.

Un beso,

Tuyo, siempre

91. The Negre Book (excerpt of chant 2)

It was already written: ‘The cut worm forgives the plow’ and also ‘to create a little flower is the labour of ages’.

It is true, I’m unworthy to kiss the ground she walks on.

I´m unworthy to wash her feet.

I´m unworthy to be her chair.

But there would be nothing makes me happier than caring for her… even her rudest words would be a present for me.

If at least I could enjoy the favor of being humbly Yours…

90. The Negre Book (chant 2)

(primarily dated: 30th july, 2009)


I don´t belong to the race of those who can decide on. It would be a vain illusion for me.

My role is other. I’m in the dim room.

My point is to become a whim, a tenure, to deserve the light of her soul. No matter the strict she was, or her wishes could be. Her will is my calling. Her physical appearance is forbidden for me.

And there’s just one remaining true: she is the animal spiritually higher. And her soul is free, inspiring and domineering above all. And I am under her feet.

(The Slave’ snatch)

89. a dark thought

I’ve never got a Mistress, but now I really want to keep in contact to one.


Well, properly speaking, I’d like she owns me entirely.


I need to rid me to this so dull ‘ego’ and I wish to be just a fleshy tenure of a fine-looking, chic an domineering woman, and being used as she desires…


At least in the dim of a closed room.


I yearn for the lightness of my being, the animal freedom of slaves, who mustn’t be, and so that enjoying with the buoyancy of whom has lost their moral chains. And above all giving Her all kind of unbounded pleasures [...]

88. the negre book (chant 9)

[…] Obey! In the house of worship

Wash your naked body in the mud

Poured by other slaves,

Taste the bitter seed of compliance,

Prey for a new chance to your master

And survive!

[…]

87. The negre book (chant 8)

[…] All History is domination

Chanted by masters

Buzzed by us

Their submissives whores.

Our lives are merely an unforced rape,

Suitably disguised.

86. Leo (e.v.)

… [I shave Leo with a barber knife. A DonnaKaran show in the T.V. A flock of seagulls marching in circles. From the distance it seems as a mosquitoes cloud.


I stretch the skin of his cock before shaving him. I grasp his balls with one hand. He raises his legs, holding them up with his arms.


His anus is opened and closed with each brush. I do it leisurely. We’re here for that, for doing it carefree. Then, the phone ring.


TomFord substitutes for Karan. A turkish cargo is coming in the dock. Warm and cold water soaking tiny towels.


My tongue tastes the soft shaved skin of Leo. I just suck hairless spots, mouth, feet.

A thumb fellatio without bang. Knees. Some parts of the belly. Nipples. Ears. The forefront. A blowjob in the front. The Leo’s face got wet by my saliva.


He says his cum tastes like chocolate today, it might be so. AfterEight, this is the accurate flavor of Leo’s cum. In my mouth bursts his cock and floods it with melted AfterEight]

… [An antique shop for sale. The woman gives me a visiting card wich is one of the pictures hanging on the walls. I buy an octagonal table. I buy a four-seats yellow sofa]

... [...]

85. belle de jour (e.v.)

[…] repairs in Belle De Jour to turn it into a spa,


what silly word, spa!, you know, bubble baths and pools full of cosmetic muds and beautiful men… I watch a film about men fucking with other men, bearded men with hairless chests and tattooed muscles with chinese signs and shaved cocks and anus which are opened and closed and mouths licking assholes, and mouths full of cum and straps and bukkakes.


Some of these actors are gorgeous. Xavier asks me if gay films excites me, he questions me openly, and yes, I enjoy seeing a handsome lad fucking other striking boy if when they are playing facing the camera it turns a believable and good work, if they play with accurate, if their cocks are hard enough and come into the ass without condoms or stupid barriers […]

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