Derrotas

Uno ignora sus derrotas.  Piensa que la gente lee el pensamiento profundo y comprende. Pero si uno se observara desde afuera, tendría que lamentar su derrota.

There are these awful predictions about the crash of writing and proper compensation.

Earlier, a writer would reach for a publisher, or auto publish his words.  And sell them.

Now, they say none of that may work.

So a new business model should be created, but nobody knows clearly what it should be.

One thinks about it in silence, when this should be a group business.

How, then? I fear that if I publish my solitary feeling of loss, no light will show.

So I remain silent, and slowly succumb.

Antartica penguins

They are the owners of the place; us intruders look on, while global warming melts the blue ice into the quiet waters in the wind.  It is cold, the skin folds into itself. Only the eyes, the eyes.

One walks into the moon like rocks.  Not a shrub around, some remnants of sea weed speak of some green, some red brown, some yellow ochre.  And the birds flying and then back to hatch the white eggs inside crevasses.  The inadequate shoes sink into the snow and mold the muddy roads.  And us, the intruders, come close together in this sensation of 

Sense, meaning

There is a sense in a baptismal rite.

I stood there watching my grandchild being baptized.

Water.

The sense that God cares.

Not that God did not care before baptism.

It is just that it is a reminder, this rite, that we are cared for.

In spite of suffering?

In spite of suffering.

In spite of...

In spite of.

Cared for.

Attention span and paragraphing

Once, the hability to include secondary phrases in a large sentence was a sign of sharpness and good writing. To learn to be rigourous was to translate Cicero or Virgil. Or to follow Bertrand Russell.
Now, I walk out and see the marvelous summer garden with the mountains blueing behind the open trees into the sky.
And then I turn to the thought of being politically independent. And then, perhaps blogging into power.
Someone has lowered the air conditioning. Paula comes in and asks for a coat.
I type.
No photos; there should be.
Nowadays.

Universidad Austral - Valdivia - burning morning

I've talked to them.
Standing in front not of ashes, but of the golden hot,
The destroyer,
The past present in the void
They are crying. They fought, they won, then they burned.
They barely speak, their eyes wide
Their life's work has caught fire. Ashes.

I love my grandchildren, even though they tire me

They come to me, open armed sometimes.
I open my arms. They see my hands are empty, but they still kiss me.
It is better if I bring gifts, though. They encrease their love.
And they come to me, open armed.
My grandchildren.