Sunday, March 21, 2010

Lucha Interior

Esto es algo que seguramente le sucede a todos. Disfruten.


La consciencia sumerge
En lo interior de la mente.
Se llena de repente
Con ideas variantes.

En cuanto vas aprendiendo
Intentas entrenar lo que
Tanto te repudia y causa iniquidad.

Conoces lo malo
Al menos en tu parecer
Y quieres que lo malo
Sea bueno para hacer.

Te das unas libertades
Luchas contra tu poder.
Pero todo queda en vano.
Con la conciencia no poder.

La ley tuya es fuerte y se deja influir.
Cuidado al perderla y no poder retroceder.
Cuando esto se destruye es difícil recobrar.

Melissa Moreno

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Analysis of the statement: "Life is complicated"

Life is complicated.
Life is complicated.
Life is complicated.

This was repeated so many times for emphasis. Actually, the number three symbolizes emphasis in the Bible. Why put so much emphasis on this expression? This semester I had an amazing teacher. When I say amazing I mean every student who doesn't love him is absolutely stupid. This man knows how to teach things clearly and make you feel great while learning it. The material is somewhat complex because it is pure grammar. The course was an Introduction to Spanish linguistics. I found it amazing.
Going back to the "Life is complicated" ordeal though, the professor would mention that same statement every time a student asked a question about one of those complex rules that is just what it is with no apparent reason or explanation. The students would ask these kinds of questions frequently and upon hearing the question I already knew what was coming. Beto, the professor, was simply going to state, because "life is complicated". I fell in love with that expression. It says so much with so little.
You see, each human is his or her own world. We view things differently, we smell them differently, we think differently, our emotions are different. What effects one person negatively effects another in a positive way. The same holds true for those other people. We have constant battles going on in our head. We try to live outside of our minds because we wouldn't be functional otherwise. It is difficult. Humans love to think. We love to observe and piece things together and makes sense of them. There never seems to be enough time to think, to stop and smell the roses, to appreciate the small things. That expression, goodness, I could go on about what it implies. The point I'm trying to make is the following, life is complicated. That's it. Interpret how you will but that statement is just too complex for me to keep writing about. Your life is complex, mine is complex, the entire Earths' population has a complex life. Let's strive to make it as pain free as possible. Let's stop and smell those darn roses. You might as well enjoy the small things. If you didn't stop and enjoy small things how would you be able to continue your life in a sane way, if there even is such a thing as sanity? Strive for this happiness that we all seek. Observe things more closely. Forget about the material things for a moment and focus on those other things, the wind whistling through the trees, the stars, birds chirping, water running, the warmth of the rays of the sun, the hug or kiss of a loved one. Focus on those things. Life will not be any less complicated but you will feel fulfilled. We need to enjoy these things. Why? Because........
Life is Complicated.

My personal order of happiness:

Soon, life will not be complicated. Until then, let's work to make it as beautiful as we can, together.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

La Guitarra

This poem is short and deep. I was just looking up random poetry in Spanish
and I came across this little gem. I hope you enjoy it. Read away!

Federico Garcia Lorca


Federico Garcia Lorca
Empieza el llanto
de la guitarra.
Se rompen las copas
de la madrugada.
Empieza el llanto
de la guitarra.
Es inútil
Es imposible
Llora monitona
como llora el agua,
como llora el viento
sobre la nevada.
Es imposible
Llora por cosas
Arena del Sur caliente
que pide camelias blancas.
Llora flecha sin blanco,
la tarde sin maсana,
y el primer pájaro muerto
sobre la rama.
Oh guitarra!
Corazón malherido
por cinco espadas.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

“The Necklace” by Guy de Maupassant

I was on entertaining myself with their activities for people with my chronic condition and came across this very interesting story.
It was written by a French man in the 19th Century and found in a work called “Contes du jour et de la nuit”. Translated the work is titled, "Tales of day and night". This particular narrative was very appealing due to the grand lesson it gives.
Please give it a read.


"The Necklace"

She was one of those pretty and charming girls who are sometimes, as if by a mistake of destiny, born in a family of clerks. She had no dowry, no expectations, no means of being known, understood, loved, wedded, by any rich and distinguished man; and she let herself be married to a little clerk at the Ministry of Public Instruction.

She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, but she was as unhappy as though she had really fallen from her proper station; since with women there is neither caste nor rank; and beauty, grace, and charm act instead of family and birth. Natural fineness, instinct for what is elegant, suppleness of wit, are the sole hierarchy, and make from women of the people the equals of the very greatest ladies.

She suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born for all the delicacies and all the luxuries. She suffered from the poverty of her dwelling, from the wretched look of the walls, from the worn-out chairs, from the ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another woman of her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made her angry. The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble housework aroused in her regrets which were despairing, and distracted dreams. She thought of the silent ante-chambers hung with Oriental tapestry, lit by tall bronze candelabra, and of the two great footmen in knee-breeches who sleep in the big armchairs, made drowsy by the heavy warmth of the hot-air stove. She thought of the long salons fitted up with ancient silk, of the delicate furniture carrying priceless curiosities, and of the coquettish perfumed boudoirs made for talks at five o’clock with intimate friends, with men famous and sought after, whom all women envy and whose attention they all desire.

When she sat down to dinner, before the round table covered with a table-cloth three days old, opposite her husband, who uncovered the soup tureen and declared with an enchanted air, “Ah, the good pot-au-feu! I don’t know anything better than that,” she thought of dainty dinners, of shining silverware, of tapestry which peopled the walls with ancient personages and with strange birds flying in the midst of a fairy forest; and she thought of delicious dishes served on marvelous plates, and of the whispered gallantries which you listen to with a sphinx-like smile, while you are eating the pink flesh of a trout or the wings of a quail.

She had no dresses, no jewels, nothing. And she loved nothing but that; she felt made for that. She would so have liked to please, to be envied, to be charming, to be sought after.

She had a friend, a former schoolmate at the convent, who was rich, and whom she did not like to go and see any more, because she suffered so much when she came back.

But, one evening, her husband returned home with a triumphant air, and holding a large envelope in his hand.

“There,” said he, “here is something for you.”

She tore the paper sharply, and drew out a printed card which bore these words:

“The Minister of Public Instruction and Mme. Georges Ramponneau request the honor of M. and Mme. Loisel’s company at the palace of the Ministry on Monday evening, January 18th.”

Instead of being delighted, as her husband hoped, she threw the invitation on the table with disdain, murmuring:

“What do you want me to do with that?”

“But, my dear, I thought you would be glad. You never go out, and this is such a fine opportunity. I had awful trouble to get it. Every one wants to go; it is very select, and they are not giving many invitations to clerks. The whole official world will be there.”

She looked at him with an irritated eye, and she said, impatiently:

“And what do you want me to put on my back?”

He had not thought of that; he stammered:

“Why the dress you go to the theater in. It looks very well, to me.”

He stopped, distracted, seeing that his wife was crying. Two great tears descended slowly from the corners of her eyes towards the corners of her mouth. He stuttered:

“What’s the matter? What’s the matter?”

But, by a violent effort, she had conquered her grief, and she replied, with a calm voice, while she wiped her wet cheeks:

“Nothing. Only I have no dress, and therefore I can’t go to this ball. Give your card to some colleague whose wife is better equipped than I.”

He was in despair. He resumed:

“Come, let us see, Mathilde. How much would it cost, a suitable dress, which you could use on other occasions, something very simple?”

She reflected several seconds, making her calculations and wondering also what sum she could ask without drawing on herself an immediate refusal and a frightened exclamation from the economical clerk.

Finally, she replied, hesitatingly:

“I don’t know exactly, but I think I could manage it with four hundred francs.”

He had grown a little pale, because he was laying aside just that amount to buy a gun and treat himself to a little shooting next summer on the plain of Nanterre, with several friends who went to shoot larks down there, of a Sunday.

But he said:

“All right. I will give you four hundred francs. And try to have a pretty dress.”

The day of the ball drew near, and Mme. Loisel seemed sad, uneasy, anxious. Her dress was ready, however. Her husband said to her one evening:

“What is the matter? Come, you’ve been so queer these last three days.”

And she answered:

“It annoys me not to have a single jewel, not a single stone, nothing to put on. I shall look like distress. I should almost rather not go at all.”

He resumed:

“You might wear natural flowers. It’s very stylish at this time of the year. For ten francs you can get two or three magnificent roses.”

She was not convinced.

“No; there’s nothing more humiliating than to look poor among other women who are rich.”

But her husband cried:

“How stupid you are! Go look up your friend Mme. Forestier, and ask her to lend you some jewels. You’re quite thick enough with her to do that.”

She uttered a cry of joy:

“It’s true. I never thought of it.”

The next day she went to her friend and told of her distress.

Mme. Forestier went to a wardrobe with a glass door, took out a large jewel-box, brought it back, opened it, and said to Mme. Loisel:

“Choose, my dear.”

She saw first of all some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian cross, gold, and precious stones of admirable workmanship. She tried on the ornaments before the glass, hesitated, could not make up her mind to part with them, to give them back. She kept asking:

“Haven’t you any more?”

“Why, yes. Look. I don’t know what you like.”

All of a sudden she discovered, in a black satin box, a superb necklace of diamonds; and her heart began to beat with an immoderate desire. Her hands trembled as she took it. She fastened it around her throat, outside her high-necked dress, and remained lost in ecstasy at the sight of herself.

Then she asked, hesitating, filled with anguish:

“Can you lend me that, only that?”

“Why, yes, certainly.”

She sprang upon the neck of her friend, kissed her passionately, then fled with her treasure.

The day of the ball arrived. Mme. Loisel made a great success. She was prettier than them all, elegant, gracious, smiling, and crazy with joy. All the men looked at her, asked her name, endeavored to be introduced. All the attachés of the Cabinet wanted to waltz with her. She was remarked by the minister himself.

She danced with intoxication, with passion, made drunk by pleasure, forgetting all, in the triumph of her beauty, in the glory of her success, in a sort of cloud of happiness composed of all this homage, of all this admiration, of all these awakened desires, and of that sense of complete victory which is so sweet to woman’s heart.

She went away about four o’clock in the morning. Her husband had been sleeping since midnight, in a little deserted ante-room, with three other gentlemen whose wives were having a very good time.

He threw over her shoulders the wraps which he had brought, modest wraps of common life, whose poverty contrasted with the elegance of the ball dress. She felt this and wanted to escape so as not to be remarked by the other women, who were enveloping themselves in costly furs.

Loisel held her back.

“Wait a bit. You will catch cold outside. I will go and call a cab.”

But she did not listen to him, and rapidly descended the stairs. When they were in the street they did not find a carriage; and they began to look for one, shouting after the cabmen whom they saw passing by at a distance.

They went down towards the Seine, in despair, shivering with cold. At last they found on the quay one of those ancient noctambulant coupés which, exactly as if they were ashamed to show their misery during the day, are never seen round Paris until after nightfall.

It took them to their door in the Rue des Martyrs, and once more, sadly, they climbed up homeward. All was ended for her. And as to him, he reflected that he must be at the Ministry at ten o’clock.

She removed the wraps, which covered her shoulders, before the glass, so as once more to see herself in all her glory. But suddenly she uttered a cry. She had no longer the necklace around her neck!

Her husband, already half-undressed, demanded:

“What is the matter with you?”

She turned madly towards him:

“I have—I have—I’ve lost Mme. Forestier’s necklace.”

He stood up, distracted.


And they looked in the folds of her dress, in the folds of her cloak, in her pockets, everywhere. They did not find it.

He asked:

“You’re sure you had it on when you left the ball?”

“Yes, I felt it in the vestibule of the palace.”

“But if you had lost it in the street we should have heard it fall. It must be in the cab.”

“Yes. Probably. Did you take his number?”

“No. And you, didn’t you notice it?”


They looked, thunderstruck, at one another. At last Loisel put on his clothes.

“I shall go back on foot,” said he, “over the whole route which we have taken, to see if I can’t find it.”

And he went out. She sat waiting on a chair in her ball dress, without strength to go to bed, overwhelmed, without fire, without a thought.

Her husband came back about seven o’clock. He had found nothing.

He went to Police Headquarters, to the newspaper offices, to offer a reward; he went to the cab companies—everywhere, in fact, whither he was urged by the least suspicion of hope.

She waited all day, in the same condition of mad fear before this terrible calamity.

Loisel returned at night with a hollow, pale face; he had discovered nothing.

“You must write to your friend,” said he, “that you have broken the clasp of her necklace and that you are having it mended. That will give us time to turn round.”

She wrote at his dictation.

At the end of a week they had lost all hope.

And Loisel, who had aged five years, declared:

“We must consider how to replace that ornament.”

The next day they took the box which had contained it, and they went to the jeweler whose name was found within. He consulted his books.

“It was not I, madame, who sold that necklace; I must simply have furnished the case.”

Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, searching for a necklace like the other, consulting their memories, sick both of them with chagrin and with anguish.

They found, in a shop at the Palais Royal, a string of diamonds which seemed to them exactly like the one they looked for. It was worth forty thousand francs. They could have it for thirty-six.

So they begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days yet. And they made a bargain that he should buy it back for thirty-four thousand francs, in case they found the other one before the end of February.

Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs which his father had left him. He would borrow the rest.

He did borrow, asking a thousand francs of one, five hundred of another, five louis here, three louis there. He gave notes, took up ruinous obligations, dealt with usurers, and all the race of lenders. He compromised all the rest of his life, risked his signature without even knowing if he could meet it; and, frightened by the pains yet to come, by the black misery which was about to fall upon him, by the prospect of all the physical privations and of all the moral tortures which he was to suffer, he went to get the new necklace, putting down upon the merchant’s counter thirty-six thousand francs.

When Mme. Loisel took back the necklace Mme. Forestier said to her, with a chilly manner:

“You should have returned it sooner, I might have needed it.”

She did not open the case, as her friend had so much feared. If she had detected the substitution, what would she have thought, what would she have said? Would she not have taken Mme. Loisel for a thief?

Mme. Loisel now knew the horrible existence of the needy. She took her part, moreover, all on a sudden, with heroism. That dreadful debt must be paid. She would pay it. They dismissed their servant; they changed their lodgings; they rented a garret under the roof.

She came to know what heavy housework meant and the odious cares of the kitchen. She washed the dishes, using her rosy nails on the greasy pots and pans. She washed the dirty linen, the shirts, and the dish-cloths, which she dried upon a line; she carried the slops down to the street every morning, and carried up the water, stopping for breath at every landing. And, dressed like a woman of the people, she went to the fruiterer, the grocer, the butcher, her basket on her arm, bargaining, insulted, defending her miserable money sou by sou.

Each month they had to meet some notes, renew others, obtain more time.

Her husband worked in the evening making a fair copy of some tradesman’s accounts, and late at night he often copied manuscript for five sous a page.

And this life lasted ten years.

At the end of ten years they had paid everything, everything, with the rates of usury, and the accumulations of the compound interest.

Mme. Loisel looked old now. She had become the woman of impoverished households—strong and hard and rough. With frowsy hair, skirts askew, and red hands, she talked loud while washing the floor with great swishes of water. But sometimes, when her husband was at the office, she sat down near the window, and she thought of that gay evening of long ago, of that ball where she had been so beautiful and so fêted.

What would have happened if she had not lost that necklace? Who knows? who knows? How life is strange and how changeful! How little a thing is needed for us to be lost or to be saved!

But, one Sunday, having gone to take a walk in the Champs Elysées to refresh herself from the labors of the week, she suddenly perceived a woman who was leading a child. It was Mme. Forestier, still young, still beautiful, still charming.

Mme. Loisel felt moved. Was she going to speak to her? Yes, certainly. And now that she had paid, she was going to tell her all about it. Why not?

She went up.

“Good-day, Jeanne.”

The other, astonished to be familiarly addressed by this plain good wife, did not recognize her at all, and stammered:

“But—madame!—I do not know—You must have mistaken.”

“No. I am Mathilde Loisel.”

Her friend uttered a cry.

“Oh, my poor Mathilde! How you are changed!”

“Yes, I have had days hard enough, since I have seen you, days wretched enough—and that because of you!”

“Of me! How so?”

“Do you remember that diamond necklace which you lent me to wear at the ministerial ball?”

“Yes Well?”

“Well, I lost it.”

“What do you mean? You brought it back.”

“I brought you back another just like it. And for this we have been ten years paying. You can understand that it was not easy for us, us who had nothing. At last it is ended, and I am very glad.”

Mme. Forestier had stopped.

“You say that you bought a necklace of diamonds to replace mine?”

“Yes. You never noticed it, then! They were very like.”

And she smiled with a joy which was proud and naïve at once.

Mme. Forestier, strongly moved, took her two hands.

“Oh, my poor Mathilde! Why, my necklace was paste. It was worth at most five hundred francs!”


Sunday, October 11, 2009

The Fallen



The fallen is confused.  Something was done.  Something is wrong.  It cannot be described entirely.  Confusion of the fallen is like the dull black and white lighting of a mystery film.  It is difficult to see between the shades and dramatic lighting.  Certain things appear gray while others are too bright.  One would rather see the gray a little clearer and the bright a little duller.  One squints.  One remains depressed and pensive.

The ills of the fallen are many. 

The fallen are confused.

There is a strong want to believe that one has not wronged.  One yearns for a clear conscience.  One tries to believe in the fallen angel that repents, that floats back to God one day and begs forgiveness, that is forgiven even after all of the horrible things past.  One feels worthless and confused, yet fulfilled and delighted.

The ills of the fallen are many.

The fallen are confused.

Wanting to not be fallen, the fallen abandon all hate.  Wasting away physically, the fallen silently wait.  Wasting away emotionally, the fallen silently wait.  Wasting away spiritually, the fallen silently wait.    Wasting away socially, the fallen silently wait.

The ills of the fallen are many.

The fallen are confused.

Thursday, October 1, 2009


What are we made of? Simple. It's a proven fact that we are made of certain chemicals labeled as "organic". Those chemicals are composed of carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen. It's the old "CHO" we learned back in middle school when we had no clue what our body was made of and frankly couldn't care less. Religions, at least most of them, also mention the fact that we are made from dirt, which of course is made of the same elements described above and then some. What is the point of writing about this substance? There are so many problems stemming from attitudes such as racism, prejudice, ethnocentricity, sexism. We are all made of the same general substance. Why do we hate so much? Why do humans insist on fighting off anyone and everyone that comes into their path? Shouldn't we treat the very substance we are made of with the same respect that we would treat ourselves? Shouldn't people just get along and be considered as equals amongst themselves without so many problems? Wouldn't it be wonderful? We must remember, we must all conclude that substance, no matter how different it may seem in other humans, is all the same stuff. We are carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, a few other chemicals and nothing more. We are CHO.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

A deeper meaning behind gadgets

The shiny backside and mirror-like reflection is impressive. Certainly, it is meant to impress even the most technologically savvy. My friends look at it and gawk. Yes, I am aware of it's exterior beauty. What about the interior you ask? Well, it has very few buttons. Actually. It only has three if you want to get down to the fine details. One for volume control, one for sleeping and waking, one for going home. How can one go home with such a device? Have you not heard!? This device allows for time travel. It takes you to the past and the future. You don't even have to leave your desk to know history. History is documented by man though. Yes, that is true. Well, how can I trust this device if the history is recorded my men? They are imperfect, an inferior race. You tell me this device will help me see the past but I cannot even begin to express the doubts that I have about recorded history. Don't humans skip the negative details? Don't they hide the immoral and unpopular things within the shadows? Impossible to believe that such a device, actually created by man as it were, can help me travel back in time, but you said "time travel". That implies traveling into the future. How can one travel into the future with a man made device? You tell me it's done with the passing of time itself. I ask you how that is possible. The future is never the future once it becomes the present. What is this notion of time. This electronic device before me gives me a time. Is not the concept of time also man made? I am confused. How can it be? Explain this to me. Yes, it is true that things can be put on calendars and proclaimed as future events but sometimes, sigh, these things don't happen. Other things happen. The plans don't work. The planning was futile. How will we be able to understand this device laying in front of me that makes me ponder so many different things? The device itself does not speak of human imperfection but it does indeed embody it in certain ways. Is this device fully functional all the time with no freeze ups, everlasting battery, easy user interface? I think that depends on the person using the device. What do you believe? What does this device tell us. Tell me, what does this device tell us about humanity, about me, about you?