Todos llenamos espacios. El barbero de la esquina, el que pide en el semaforo, el Amet que dirige el tráfico cuando vas a trabajar, la cajera del supermercado que nunca te sonríe. Para algunos, llenamos espacios enormes.. bahías, mares, galaxias en su universo. Para otros, espacios diminutos.. tan pequeños que pudiésemos pensar que no somo nadie para ese otro. Pero siempre llenamos espacios.. damos olor, color, imágen, palabras, experiencias a los demas. A veces por segundos... a veces por décadas... otras, por vidas. Y así vamos, llenando espacios. Y de esos espacios hacemos acogedoras cunas o fétidos pantanos. Tenemos tantas oportunidades para llenar espacios. Y en ocasiones.. no lo vemos. No reconocemos los espacios que llenamos en el otro. Y abandonamos hermosas cunas que hemos creado sin aviso. O los fétidos pantanos que hemos cavado, sin ni siquiera limpiarlos. Será que no nos damos cuenta de los espacios que llenamos? Será que creemos que andamos por la vida como fantasmas? Sin tocar nada ni a nadie? Ser un fantasma es no saber que andamos por la vida. Seamos conscientea de ello o no, apreciemos esta oportunidad o no... aun así, llenamos espacios.

Sabes que llenas un espacio en mi?



Originally used to mean a young man, new to the game. By new to the game, I don't mean he just meant a rapper, but he just started selling crack, just started rapping, whatever, but even simpler it was a term used to mean just a person much younger than you. Now, commercial rappers have turned the meaning upside down to mean a 'fine female', apparently.

"shorty's laugh was cold blooded as he spoke so foul, Only twelve trying to tell me that he liked my style"
-NaS, 1994

"Shorty is shaking her ass on my Hummer with spinning rims, or something."
-average commercialized rapper today



The impossible dream

- Why do you do these things?
- What things?
- These ridiculous... the things you do!
- I hope to add some measure of grace to the world.
- The world's a dung heap and we are maggots that crawl on it!
- My Lady knows better in her heart.
- What's in my heart will get me halfway to hell. And you.. you're going to take such a beating!
- Whether I win or lose does not matter.
- What does?
- Only that I follow the quest.


- That for your Quest!

(turns, marches away; stops, turns bock and asks, awkwardly)

- What does that mean... quest?
- It is the mission of each true knight... His duty... nay, his privilege!

To dream the impossible dream,
To fight the unbeatable foe,
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go;
To right the unrightable wrong.
To love, pure and chaste, from afar,
To try, when your arms are too weary,
To reach the unreachable star!
This is my Quest to follow that star,
No matter how hopeless, no matter how far,
To fight for the right Without question or pause,
To be willing to march into hell
For a heavenly cause!
And I know, if I'll only be true
To this glorious Quest,
That my heart will lie peaceful and calm
When I'm laid to my rest.
And the world will be better for this,
That one man, scorned and covered with scars,
Still strove, with his last ounce of courage,
To reach the unreachable stars!

musgo, tierra y jazmin


lo que se fue a pique hoy domingo

- arreglar los gabinetes de la cocina
- planificar mi semana
- pasar tiempo en casa
- escribir
- llevar regalos pendientes
- montar bici
- ir a la playa
- dormirme temprano
- estar sola


JAck GilBErt


It waits. While I am walking through the pine trees
along the river, it is waiting. It has waited a long time.
In southern France, in Belgium, and even Alabama.
Now it waits in New England while I say grace over
almost everything: for a possum dead on someone’s lawn,
the single light on a levee while Northampton sleeps,
and because the lanes between houses in Greek hamlets
are exactly the width of a donkey loaded on each side
with barley. Loneliness is the mother’s milk of America.
The heart is a foreign country whose language none
of us is good at.Winter lingers on in the woods,
but already it looks discarded as the birds return
and sing carelessly; as though there never was the power
or size of December. For nine years in me it has waited.
My life is pleasant, as usual.My body is a blessing
and my spirit clear. But the waiting does not let up.

The Forgotten Dialect Of The Heart

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not laguage but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds