On Poetry and Culture Shock

I don't normally talk about myself in this blog, but I have news.

I have two jobs: one that makes money and adjusts to a schedule and another one that doesn't make money and has flexible hours. The moneymaking one has gone from a lovely 8 hours a week to 20 (with about two hours a day spent in transport). It's a lot more than I can manage. I'm physically drained and emotionally ecstatic. If you know me in the real world, you have a moral obligation to force me to go out on weekends. 

^^^^^^

Normalmente no hablo mucho de mí en esta bitácora, pero hoy hay noticias.

Tengo dos trabajos: el que da dinero y sigue un horario, y el que hago gratis  y cuando puedo. El que da dinero ha pasado de 2 horas al día (8 a la semana), que era perfecto, a unas cinco al día, sin contar dos horas de coche más o menos. Es mucho más de lo que puedo abarcar. Físicamente estoy hecha polvo; emocionalmente, eufórica tirando a delosnervios. Si me conoces en el mundo real, tienes la obligación moral de obligarme a salir los fines de semana. 

As I have said before, I adore e. e. cummings. He's probably the poet I've quoted more often in this blog. He's good at death, at description, at love, and here, he's good at being erotic. Seriously, have you ever seen a description go so much to the point at at the same time manage to be original?

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big Love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

me gusta mi cuerpo cuando está con tu
cuerpo. Qué cosa más nueva.
Músculos mejores y nervios más.
me gusta tu cuerpo. me gusta lo que hace,
me gustan sus cómos. me gusta sentir la columna
de tu cuerpo y sus huesos, y el temblor
-firme-suavidad y que voy a
una vez y otra vez y otra vez
besar, me gusta besarte aquí y allá,
me gusta, acariciando suavemente el,
impresionante vello de tu piel eléctrica,
y eso-qué-es sale de entre
carne que se separa . . . . Y ojos enormes migas de amor,

y me gusta quizá la sensación

debajo de mí tú qué nueva.

Creo que este microcuento en verso libre sería mejor si tuviera menos sílabas, si pudiera encajarlo en la estructura del tanka. Pero así se va a quedar. 

Bares. Ginebra.
Alguien comparte conmigo
un poco de tiempo y saliva.
A la vuelta,
Lo mejor de la noche:
Un búho blanco,
Posado sobre un ceda el paso.

 ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

This microstory in free verse would probably improve if I managed to twist it into Tanka shape. But this is the way it's going to stay.  

Bars. Gin.
Someone to share with me
A little time and saliva.
On the way back home,
the highlight of the evening:
a white owl,
perched on a traffic sign.

Raven says that watching me suffer is great fun. I know he means well and wants the best for me. But sometimes we don't want just to "stop suffering": we want to feel nothing at all. Just like Ruben Darío here; I hate most of his poetry, exclusively because of his themes (pretty nice-sounding nonsense: he was a cultural equivalent of Aestheticism), but I have always liked his way with words. And this poem.

Fatality.  

Blessed be the tree, hardly sensitive,
and more so the hard stone, which doesn’t feel at all,
as there’s no greater pain that the pain of living
and no greater sorrow than consciouness.

To be, and not to know, and be aimless,
and the fear of having been and future terror...
And the certain dread of dying tomorrow
and to suffer for life and for shadow and for

What we don’t know and hardly guess at,
and the flesh that gropes with fresh tendrils
and the grave that awaits with funereal flowers
and not to know where we are going
Or where we come from!

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Raven dice que verme sufrir es muy divertido. Sé que tiene las mejores intenciones y que quiere lo mejor para mí. Pero a veces, lo que queremos no es dejar de sufrir, sino no sentir nada en absoluto, como nuestro amigo Ruben Darío aquí. Odio casi toda la poesía de Darío, por sus temas más que otra cosa, aunque siempre he admirado su uso tan hábil de las palabras. Y este poema. 

 Lo Fatal.

Dichoso el árbol, que es apenas sensitivo,
y más la piedra dura porque ésa ya no siente,
pues no hay dolor más grande que el dolor de ser vivo
ni mayor pesadumbre que la vida consciente.

Ser, y no saber nada, y ser sin rumbo cierto,
y el temor de haber sido y un futuro terror...
¡Y el espanto seguro de estar mañana muerto,
y sufrir por la vida y por la sombra y por

lo que no conocemos y apenas sospechamos,
y la carne que tienta con sus frescos racimos,
y la tumba que aguarda con sus fúnebres ramos
y no saber adónde vamos,

ni de dónde venimos!...

I once mentioned here that my second-hand Bukowski's Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit was missing a page. Someone sent me the poem, so here it is. I like it because I think it is about lack of communication, and also a very philosophical matter put in very Bukowskian terms: what's more important and urgent, an emotional (spiritual, mental) problem, or a material one?  

I am dying of sadness and alcohol
he said to me over the bottle
on a soft Thursday afternoon
in an old hotel room by the train depot.

I have, he went on, betrayed myself with
belief, delude myself with love
tricked myself with sex.

the bottle is damned faithful, he said,
the bottle will not lie.

meat is cut as roses are cut
men die as dogs die
love dies as dogs die,
he said.

listen, Ronny, I said,
lend me 5 dollars.

love needs too much help, he said.
hate takes care of itself.

just 5 dollars, Ronny.

Hate contains truth. beauty is a facade.

I'll pay you back in a week.

stick with the thorn
stick with the bottle
stick with the voices of old men in hotel rooms.

I aint's had a decent meal, Ronny, for a couple of days.

stick with the laughter and horror of death.
keep the butterfat out.
get lean, get ready.

Something in my gut, Ronny, I'll be able
to face it.

To die along and ready and unsurprised,
that's the trick.

Ronny, listen--

that majestic weeping you hear
will not be for
us.

I suppose not, Ronny.

The lies of centuries, the lies of love,
the lies of Socrates and Blake and Christ
will be your bedmates and tombstones
in a death that will never end.

Ronny, my poems came back from the
New York Quarterly.

That is why they weep,
without knowing.

Is that what all that noise is, I said,
my god shit.

^^^^^^^^^^

Conté una vez que me había comprado un libro de Bukowski,  de segunda mano, y no me di cuenta hasta que llegué a mi casa de que le faltaba una página, y que en el índice, alguien había escrito a lápiz "se lo di a Steve Daniels la víspera de irse a Bulgaria en el Ritz. Agosto 1995. El poema es imposible de encontrar por google (bueno, hasta ahora) y finalmente alguien que tenía el libro entero me lo mandó por email. Me gusta porque creo que trata sobre la incomunicación. Y además, ¿qué problemas son más graves, los espirituales o los materiales? 

Me muero de tristeza y alcohol,
Me dijo agarrado a la botella
En una suave tarde de jueves
En una vieja habitación de hotel
Junto al cementerio de trenes.

Me he, siguió, traicionado a mí mismo con
Creencias, me he engañado con amor,
Me he estafado con sexo.

La botella es sincera de cojones, dijo,
La botella no miente.

Se corta carne como el que corta rosas
Los hombres mueren igual que los perros
El amor muere como un perro,
Dijo.

Oye, Ronny, dije yo,
préstame cinco dólares.

El amor necesita demasiada ayuda, dijo.
El odio se las apaña solo.

Sólo cinco dólares, Ronny.

El odio contiene la verdad. La belleza es una fachada.

Te los devuelvo en una semana.

Hazle caso a la espina.
Hazle caso a la botella.
Hazles caso a las voces de viejos en habitaciones de hotel.

No he comido nada en dos días, Ronny.

Quédate con la risa y el horror a la muerte.
No comas grasas.
Adelgaza, prepárate.

Con que coma algo, Ronny, podré
enfrentarme a esto.

Morir estando preparado, que no te coja de sorpresa,
Ahí está el truco.

Ronny, escucha...

Ese llanto majestuoso que oyes
No es por
Nosotros.

Supongo que no, Ronny.

Las mentiras de siglos, las mentiras de amor,
Las mentiras de Sócrates y Blake y Cristo
Serán tus compañeras de cama y lápidas
En una muerte sin final.

Ronny, me han devuelto los poemas
Que mandé al New York Quarterly.

Por eso lloran,
Sin saberlo.

Por eso hay tanto ruido, dije,
Dios mío, mierda.

Fanshawe has written an excellent essay rant essay on the nature of power . It is true that having a great power over a small area can be a very dangerous thing. Reducir al mínimo, his blog, is in Spanish, and I like that entry so much that here you have my translation.

^^^^^^^^

I was wondering why I had such a violent, furious reaction against all this Wikipedia business*. The previous post's title, the addenda, everything, shows I was raging in a situation which, at least in theory, doesn't affect me that much. I mean, I don't know Cisne Negro (well, now I know him a little bit more) and I have nothing to do with Lovie's cartoon (beyond the fact that I'm a reader), therefore it would have been a logical reaction to report on the case and show my disagreement with Wikipedia's management.

But it wasn't so. I was angry; furious. It has become a personal issue and I would like to know why.

A few days ago, my boss, a short-sighted, bad-mannered guy, ordered me to change my seat at work. I began to tell him why I preferred to stay where I was and he cut me short saying, "here, we do as I say", and left, leaving me mid-sentence. I went out after him, like a hyena, and I accused him of having bad manners, of not respecting me, of being unable to talk to anybody to their faces, of being authoritarian, of power having gone to his head. Anyway, he just repeated "do as I say because I say so". It's a comfort to know that he spend a couple days aching about this argument.

But let's stop at the "power going to his head" bit. This is Palazzo Paleotti. A study room and computer lab at [Bologna] University. My boss's domain is... minimal. Tiny. Insignificant. But he's all full of himself, al full of that little bit of power, and he uses and abuses it. I rebel, get angry, give notice (actually, tomorrow's my last day). But it doesn't matter, he thinks he has the right to yell, to bully, and repeat once and again things like "I'm the boss here", "I represent to the outside the study rooms of Bologna [University]". When someone doesn't tolerate his shouting, he gets crazy. He's the boss, period.

There are even smaller areas of power. The bus driver that closes the door on your face just because he can. He is in charge of his bus and he decides you can't go in, even if he saw you running all the way to the bus stop, it doesn't matter. He uses and abuses his power. The University secretary who makes your life hell when you register beecase she doesn't feel like working. When you complain, she gets mad and decides that she's not going to register you. Because she's in charge. It's her area of power and she squeezes it, as abusively as possible. I used to date a girl who got angry with me when I was nice or friendly to restaurant staff, when I helped them to clean up or lifted things so that they coupld wipe underneath. She used to say, "they are working for you, you're his boss".

I realise now that I have reacted like a rabid dog to something that I've considered an abuse of a tiny area of power, Wikipedia. Arrogance, bad manners, condescendence, not listening, not discussing, shutting oneself up in stubborness and using "I am the boss, so shut up" as a weapon. It sounded like an Internet version of nouveau-richness, of someone who has been a nobody all his life and suddenly finds himself with power in his hands, even a tiny bit, such as a bus, a study room or a Wiki. And then I think about how these people, simple and normal with virtues and flaws, with a little bit of extra power become dictators, tyrants, horrible people who try to be always on top, treading on no matter who... just because they can. And in that case, what happens to those who get real power, power over something big? It has always been said that power corrupts, and I begin to worry that it is true in 9 out of 10 cases.

I wonder what would happen to me if I had power, even a little bit, how I would behave, if I would forget my ethics and would bully everyone, as so many others do. I think of the times I have been a teacher, in charge of a class, if I have ever said "because I say so".

Sometimes I am afriad of giving up , either way. Giving up the fight against this and giving up the fight against myself so that I don't fall into the trap.

*To cut a long story short, Fanshawe was angry because a Spanish wikipedia entry on a comic book was deleted by the Wikipowers that be.

I have talked before of how hard it is to shop for a bra in Spain if you do have breasts (because most bras do not take into account that the wearer is tridimensional); I also talked about how in Spain, most women wear bikinis and full swimsuits are an exception. I have a nicely tridimensional bra size (which is in no way extreme, I can assure you), and I need a bikini in order to swim, run, walk and jump around on the beach. You would imagine that such a relatively modest aspiration, that is, a nicely fitting bikini, the shops in town would be eager to tempt me with offers I could not refuse. 

Not so.

Shop number one didn't have a single model in my size. I don't mean models I liked. I mean models my size. So I thought, let's go to the Corte Inglés sports department: I can get myself a sports two-piece. Yeah, right. Will you believe me if I tell you that all the two-pieces there were triangle bikinis? Why? Can anyone explain to me why a sports shop is selling bikinis that give zero supports? The only sport practice I know that uses them is bodybuilding.... will it go suddenly in fashion?

So I go to the swimwear section of El Corte Inglés. I try on not one, not two, but seven different models. And at last I find one that doesn't strangle me, doesn't leave me to take a walk in the direction of my waist, and hides all the bits that shouldn't see the light. The surprise comes when I look at the label, and I read: 

PROSTHETIC.

That's it. The only bikini in town that comes in my size was meant for mastectomised women. I don't know if I want to laugh or cry. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Ya he hablado en alguna otra ocasión de lo difícil que es comprar un sujetador en España, porque los fabricantes no tienen en cuenta que quien lleva puesto un sujetador es una persona tridimensional, que tiene un ancho de espalda proporcional al ancho del pecho (es decir, a mayor tamaño de las copas es necesario aumentar el tamaño del contorno). Y como todo el mundo sabe, las españolas llevamos bikinis, y los bañadores enterizos son una excepción. Yo, que tengo una talla de sujetador tridimensional (y os puedo asegurar que no es ninguna locura sino algo más bien normalito), y necesito un bikini para correr, andar, nadar, y saltar si hace falta. Cualquiera pensaría que teniendo una necesidad tan razonable, es decir, una prenda de vestir que sea de mi talla, que no es muy grande ni muy pequeña, las tiendas de la ciudad estarían llenas de ofertas que yo no podría rechazar. ¿verdad?

Pues no.

La primera tienda no tenía ni un solo modelo de mi talla. No quiero decir que me gustaran, no. Digo simplemente de mi talla. Así que pensé que podía irme a la sección de deportes del Corte Inglés y comprarme un dos piezas deportivo. Sí, claro. ¿Me creéis si os digo que todos los dos piezas eran de triangulitos? ¿Por qué? ¿Alguien me explica qué hacen en una tienda de deportes un par de cientos de bikinis que no sirven para sujetar nada? Que yo sepa, el único “deporte” en el que se utiliza es el culturismo... ¿habrá en Sevilla una repentina moda culturista?

Así que me voy a la sección de baño del cortinglés. No me probé ni uno ni dos, sino siete bikinis. Por fin encuentro uno que no me estrangula, no se marcha de paseo a la cintura, y oculta todos los cachitos de mí que no deberían ver la luz. La sorpresa viene cuando miro la etiqueta de este bikini milagroso y leo:

PROTESIS.

Ya está. El único bikini de la ciudad que viene en mi talla está pensado para mujeres con una mastectomía. No sé si reír o llorar.