A night on the road

Everything comes down to that night on the road. The world was silent, the sky was clear. I kept my pace racing past your shadow-ghost. Everything comes down to that night on the road.

Everything comes down to that night on the road. People around me were silent, my path ahead was clear (my only path as it became under me). People around me were silent as fuck, so much that I know there wasn’t anyone on that night on the road.

Everything comes down to that night on the road. I was driving a car through New Mexico and I stopped at a rest area. The milky way opened up the belly of the darkness like a Spanish fan full of light and colors and blood that bleeds that night on the road.

Everything comes down to that night on the road. I raced my bike along the Neckar river chased by a mouth full of rabid dogs, and I felt lonely and connected to the stars like a salvation that lives up there. But hell, there’s no stars on that lonely night on the road.

Everything comes down to that night on the road when there was no night and there was no road. My reality consisted of a blade that never happened. Of a knife and a fist that happened upon me, upon an instant as thin as a blade can get, and as road and as night as a self could become that night on the road.

Everything comes down to that night on the road. The world was silent, the sky was clear. My pace was apace with my heartbeat. I left, as I walked, an uncertain map behind: Cottbus, Truro, Víznar or Alfacar, Toledo, Brooklyn, half of the Boulevard of Kukulkán. I left my steps behind, and I left behind a road roaring on that night.

Dirac proposed that all the electrons might be one and the same. That given the equation with their action, there is just one solution and all the particles entangled in our chemistry are many aspects of that single object. Thus, I pinned down my roads and my nights to that lonely feeling, and I computed the tensions they held in space and time and in my torn-up soul, and they didn’t sum up. And I checked the numbers and jerked off frantically to all those maths running over my skin. And I came

and I cum

as I realized

and realize there’s still more road ahead that never ending night. Then, if taken with care, all those tension points, the next Truros and Kukulkáns, the roads and the light and the darkness of those nights, they coil upon themselves like a twisted fractal rose with ten dimensions and zero mass. And then, yes, they are all the same, a perfect manifold that I’ve walked many times: a night on the road along a road made of night.

pink Mai one

    You can even harvest it from the floor at dawn. That harsh Asphalt Flower. When the streets are not so dead and the people not so gone, there's that little plastic breath that someone has forgotten or let drop out of weariness. You can get it anywhere else before, of course. Don't need to hide that much. Guess a pocket or a hand, bet a price. Lick, dip, drink. The noon gets fueled up as you become field and crowd. And at some point you get back to your flat, with your jaw knocked out, a sense of boredom perhaps, your arms weight and your feet weight as well, you let yourself fall into the bed and gesticulate the air with your tired arm until you reach for your worn-out blanket that some hustle last week has burned with a cigarette. He didn't intent to, he just didn't mind the ashes and that's how... And do you ever think about delivering children to this world or to that city or that bitch? Did you know there are snipers on the roofs outside with their only eye wide open spilling out fire? Have you read about the girl, they kicked her head like a rugby ball with their heavy boots, heavy like a heartless cyborg they are planning to build in the near future or past? You will read about that tomorrow anyway, when you wake up with your tongue so dried as sandpaper, your arms still tired, your heart just pumping enough for you to reach to the internet device. You will learn that she had tattooed pink Mai one in her tongue and that she was showing them her tongue with smile and happy, with a rose still attached to its long stem between her boobs and down her trousers, with each hype on the street quietly exciting her clitoris. And what about back home? When you go there to your sadness and you learn about the thefts and the prostitution around you, the prostitution where it is not wanted and where it was never necessary but indolence made it necessary. You remember those family trees you used to draw on the streets with a white chalk, and you learn the fathers and the uncles and the big cousins are also drawing their long white lines up the trunk down to the leaves playing so free in the nearby square. Every night some walk back home. You can guess a dark shadow on that dark dark night. A night made of hands you know. If you are not stepping on the floor it looks like you can beat your shadow. That's why I jump up the stairs to my house back home, and then I shut the heavy door and not in my house but usually a jesus christ sign or something blesses you so there isn't any more night anymore.

No coyote

    ++Dude, what you looking at?

    I was holding a lantern, pointing it towards the scarce canopy through the little hill and the college dorms yonder.

    --You see that window over there? It was my room. I was about to get lost in there.

    ++So what?

    --There was a night dark and with many odors sweat and beer and bare feet, and it was bright the moon had never been that close to the earth in 9 years! I was so about to lose myself that night. I reckon drinking Mezcal is like chewing a handful of this brown earth down here, it dries and itches all over your mouth just the same.

    ++That's you looking at?

    --Yeah, also. I saw a shadow. At that time I was driven back and forth from Tesuque sitting in the back. The car headlights would run fast reflecting here and there. They trick me. Made me think there were coyotes. I would be quiet most of the time just peering into the shadow, into the lights.

    **Do you fear the moment we stop talking to you? If we get lost in a forest what is there in the darkness?

    I smiled at that one, but no one could see my face.

    --Then I drove all the way to El Paso. I keep repeating to myself I saw a dead coyote by the road. It was worn out. The road I mean. By the sun. Like one of those horse skulls in the cowboy movies, just like that. A white bone under the sun half buried in the desert connecting Santa Fe and El Paso. Some unfortunate busted wheels at its sides, ripped open like rubber skins.

    **Do you think I'm gonna read that?

    ++You ever wanted to be a woman, squeeze a lemon between your legs? Ain't helping you aiming at the sky. Not even if there were snow up there. If the universe is expanding there is a limits equivalent to a black holes, you learned that this summer. Now, bend over, easy, drop that lamp, open up, easy. Chew some earth, that help me a lot.

    --Now it ain't no sun, no more of that psychedelic warmth. I get to drive my own car, back and forth to Tesuque. It rains now, so the deceptive reflections on the road run faster as I sweep my lights over some dirty puddle. They run as scared animals or as scared coyotes. But they aren't, and thus I decided there are no coyote. They don't exist. Coyote is the pitiful light we shed on the road.

    ++That's right chew more sand. Thank the rain, dude, it's wetter this way.

Knowledge is a fractal, just-percolating path between nihilism and totalitarianism

This is a tale of finding complexity and coming to terms with the world, partially. Better said, coming to terms with a little role of ours in the world, and how hard playing that role will inevitably be.

I recall my early times in Berlin when my motto was 'everything is a lie'. Even now from time to time I can't help that sentence slipping out my tongue. I was coming from a media delusion, a politics delusion, and I was confronting a University-scale scam and (once again) delusion; so I used to get drunk with friends, howl at the full moon -- which in Berlin is a bare tree laden with snow amid a desert parking lot, and repeat all over again 'this is a lie, my self is a lie, the rotting lungs of the city are a lie'. And I would doze off on a freezing concrete street until that yellow vodka would carry me home. I once lived on a 13th floor and I have memories of flying in through the window. I had abandoned myself to a hopeless nihilism.

The other extreme is being blindly sure of a truth impossible to grasp and is the essence of fascism, I have no doubt. How totalitarian this sentence was!

My little revelation was that neither position is true. It might seem small, but all of a sudden loads of dilemmas appear clear to me:

• (Wo)men is born neither evil nor good: it is a complex thing in between. 
• Evil (or good) in (wo)men is neither born nor fostered: it is a complex thing in between. 
• Media do neither lie nor tell the truth: it is a very complex thing in between. 
• There is definitively some truth and use in politics, as obvious as it is that all politicians lie. We must wring them out and out as a wet cloth to extract some of that use to the world. 
• Things are neither relative nor have they got an absolute existence of their own. Relativism is relative and difficult to size. Things exist just on a glimpse, always there and always about to vanish as if the world were quantum in nature. 

Summing up: things are complex, very complex!! And I largely recognize the defeat against this Nature in the younger, more frustrated drunkard playing chess with the shadows of the Berlin wall. A fawn hidden in the woods, its heart a nest for a dove flapping with fear. So easy to abandon ourselves to either nihilism or totalitarianism. But acknowledging that the world is complex paves a tiny, little way in front of us. The reality is complex and we must work hard to extract truth and knowledge, to make serve our work. Reality is not pointless, it is very difficult to grasp. 

The Drought in New Mexico

    I arrived here... what? 5 weeks ago already? This is above 7000 feet high, meaning 2000 meters. The lands around Santa Fe are arid. There is this huge rocky canyon northwest from here that I went visit with my mate Max and I swear you can feel the last molecules of water evaporating off the river, off your breath. Off the no-river: it's dry. The vegetation forms patches in the sand, a sand I don't believe anything can root in. Animals are rattlesnakes, black bears, coyotes... I never get to see a coyote alive. I saw many death by the road when I drove down to El Paso and I came back all thirsty.

    The first week I got kind of sick. The altitude, they say. I went mad with maths and physics and didn't really sleep. I drank a lot. The second week I didn't drink that much, so my skin got flaky. I would scratch my hand and leave white traces on the table. Then things got worst. One morning my knuckles broke up bleeding as tiny, stretched red flowers. It didn't hurt much, though. I got myself a moisturizing cream I use often, but those flowers ran round my fingers and colonized my palms: I can see them bleeding right underneath my skin, itching like hell I'd love to rip them off sometime. They erode my flesh, call my nail on a suicide scrape, and wrinkle my hands.

    Then I met all these people. Then my mind got blown up. This pack coming from all over the world to think about complex systems, whatever this is. They brought these ideas along, their discussions and their few, well chosen silences. I still try to get this thing off my hands at night, I can't help it. Also off my feet: it's itchy there as well. It's itchy as nothing I've known of before. It is, I guess, the closest I'll ever get to yielding new life, so it must hurt in a way. Also my dried lips. And these girls and guys around, so marvelous I just wish to cry out to the world that they exist, that an another Earth might just happen if we give them voice. And I turn to my hands darkened by the sun, my squeezed skin, and see Them growing and I understand. Now these new lines that weren't there before, shaping a new destiny that could not have happened otherwise. Those mates crossing my life, those new shapes for a future that is to come, all those things that--now--will happen.

Trees have roots, men have legs.

    When I first went to Germany in 2006 I didn't pack very much besides my clothes. I had a notebook where I wrote some loose impressions... it's lost now; I had exactly a pair of books that changed my mind for ever; and few things more. I can remember that I didn't pack anything like shampoo, shower gel, or toothpaste. The first night I used my flat mate's and on the second day I bought those fancy products that I had never heard of: Antischuppen Schauma, blend-a-med for my teeth (although old good Colgate existed as well), whatever. Damn, I loved Germany so much by that time!! A country I didn't know and that I was so eager to discover! Missing my usual toilet stuff was part of it, of letting me go into that strangeness. Why should I carry along such a piece of a homeland?
 
    Now I see with wonder some Erasmus students coming to Barcelona. Many of them (everyone I've met) bring along their creams and brews; hair lotions with odd names, unspeakable languages. I saw this same thing with many foreigners coming to Granada when I was living there. This seems to me like an aseptic travel abroad, don't you break that umbilical cord, don't you blur out into that expanding universe of ours... I know this is not really about that, but it's an impression that I get with such little details. Say I'm silly.
 
    However, I'm not completely rootless as yet. I didn't fucking lost my origins, they call me in the night and they still make me suffer for fucking nothing. For fucking anywhere shall be the same. I still have got some background to fucking give up. That's why I won't pack any shower stuff this time either. As I collect my clothes next Mai, as I jump into that plane. That's why I won't have a drop of nothing to clean my teeth when I arrive to the USA for the first time, and I shall rely on passersby anew. And I shall take those sands from the ground and rub them on my skin if necessary, but I don't fucking want anything from this desperately self centered culture to chase me there. I wanna breath, or discover there isn't any air worth breathing if that turns out to be.

There I go: http://www.santafe.edu/

Berlin, Warschauerstraße

The walk between Warschauerstraße and my room at a student's residence at Ostbahnhof was like playing a ramshackle piano on the dislocated tiled floor. That, whenever I walked the tiled floor. There was also this trip down the stairs from the high bridge at Warschauerstraße, where you could fuck around the dirt underneath, fuck up a lad or a chick who wouldn't complain about the sour smell; then walk the narrow vanishing path while any short of tick could get attached as it jumped out of the weeds which now and ever tried to erase the walkway; pass the tumbledown cottage, once --if ever-- a kind of train relay station; already near to the student's residence the huge Berghain disco stands, over and over again chosen the best one in the world, whoever decides it. The companion as good: any drunkard who got so far; a couple, an orgy shook the bushes, laughed the waxing waning moon which slipped roundly at either side; some children playing dirty vodka or rum sat on the curb of a road driving nowhere.

For a last time: back to the stairs descending from the high high bridge over the train rails, the bridge itself being Warschauerstraße. And the stairs hanging held by an armless night, with all the majesty of a suicide drop. And this was my preferred way back home.

For a last time, I say, cause they aren't there anymore. Now only a wailing of wind rocks the bridge, the soul. And my drunk steps, and this void. And I must walk back playing the quivering tiles, which soon won't quiver anymore. And as I pass by I see the old path changed into a neat BMX rink. The relay station is now being build into a railway museum or whatever. Yeah, the disco is still there. You can get ice cream inside. And whoever it chooses, s/he'll choose it again as the best one in the world. But people like me, the beaten downs, are not allowed in anymore. Instead, mama kids pretending to be whores but who wouldn't fuck --even suck a shit-- when sunk on the bitter night.

So this is what it means the fall of the Berlin wall. Capitalism as a busy beaver working back and fort, to and fro; fixing up whatever soviet disruption remains. Like a come of age of the whole city, mature enough that it doesn't need me anymore.

Write and Link

Two advises that I myself don't take as serious as I should. This is definitely what we must do if we really want to taylor the new global consciousness we wish. If this new consciousness is really to be born it will be an emergent one, far from individualities and in fight, at least in its first terms, against most of the structures we know nowadays.

Therefore:

Write a lot!

'Good an evil', 'artistic value' or the ’importance’ of an idea are not objective; but they aren't subjective either, in the way 'subjectiveness' is known nowadays. Rather, not completely. Evaluation of these concepts lays on a emergent, social level; exactly where this new form of consciousness is to arise; and this and no any other means is to approve or deny these subjective values. One's intelligence could serve to be ready, to have a hint and play with some vantage; but it'll be the great emergent goddess which will speak the last words.

Therefore: write a lot! Expose yourself to a public avid of failure. The matter is not anymore if you find an idea great or not; but that the actual, uppermost value of a text will only materialize in the interactions it prompts. But also be aware that this is not only the value of your work which is being squeezed out of these interactions: also the value of the You which lies in the intersection of your being with the being of the social goddess will be.


Link a lot!

And this comes as a hint that the nature has laid down for us when the brain appeared. We aren't anymore condemned to the rigid margins of a book. Chapters and sections seem to fight their last battle in the author's mind, but readers come along and break them down as they jump from one hyperlink to the next one.

I shall even think that blogs are a last chance before we assume non-linearity of the written world to come. And so I tell myself: link a lot! Let's embrace the new tools we have, for the first one mastering them has already walked quite a stretch towards winning the ephemeral eternity that awaits us.

Democracy 2.0

There is a #SpanishRevolution going on!!! Of course, it is directly inspired in the icelandic movement, but I'd say that the closest inspiration are the arab ones. Key feature --which I didn't find so important in the icelandic case-- are web 2.0: facebook and twitter. They brought together a bunch of very different people just because they we are upset with our corrupted politicians and the system they support.

A main claim against this movement is that the politicians say we don't know what we want. We organized independently of any political party or syndicate. We discovered that we don't need any underlying structure to express our claims. The politician power fears this enlightenment. The easiest thing is to say we don't know what we want.

I do know exactly what I want: I want a public social network over which I can interact with another people discussing initiatives which will democratically rise or fall. A public social network over which I can configure my vote about the many different issues of importance to my country, in real time, without the corrupt sense of delegating my will each 4 years in a party working for international enterprises. A public social network which would allow me to link my vote to a determined party or think tank or person if I desired to do so because I consider that I am not an expert on a topic, or because I considered that the topic is not so important to me, or because I just don't want to review the color of my opinion each and every minute and I trust enough a certain party or think tank or person. But also, if the people on which I delegate plans some dirty move, I want a public social network to remove my endorsement at the moment I desired, on real time and not just each 4 years.

This I call it a real (or at least more real) democracy.

A foreseeable claim against this is that we are not prepared for such a thing, or that the thing couldn't be kept under control... Just wait until you hear that. Doesn't this remind you of a fellow Mubarak talking to the Egyptian folks? O a gay --yeah, this one is on purpose-- called Franco preparing Spain for over 40 years for the simulacrum of a democracy? Don't let them play any tricks on us when they are scared and try to spread their fear. We have the technology to implement it, now we only need the will.

So up to here my point. I do know exactly what I want: not only regarding the 'how', but also have some thoughs on the 'what later'. And better on: each girl and boy, and elder and middle aged and whoever you can find tonight camping on the Spanish's squares does know what they want. Maybe they don't want the same as me, but they do know what. And we shall speak out loud and frighten the night.

Meeting on Tuesday the 19, at 15:30 in front of the Spanish embassy. Further meetings for Friday and Saturday! Keep looking at the hashtags:

#SpanishRevolution
#acampadasol
#acampadaberlin
#nolesvotes
#notenemosmiedo
#yeswecamp

Leave us kids alone!!

I can see it coming!

My (grand)father used to say that we should let the youth take over the institutions; not only hear their (our, as I'm young myself) opinions, but also grant them attention and interest.

Of course no one would ever hear my grandfather in this point, as wise and old as he was. And so, politics and similar advance so slowly, sometimes backwards. And I can see nowadays how people older than me is completely wrong in their points --they usually even mistake the debate-- and how they prevent me and others like me from making the world one that fancies us. It makes me feel kind of angry and frustrated.

But years will pass by and the older will become elder and latter slain, so my generation will at some point gain control over the world. Great done! But we will also grow older, as any rolling stone; and our ideas wouldn't be anymore those shaking the scene, but the ones taking firm hold of it. At this point, we shall also have grown into mad and irritated fellows. We have our 15 minutes and won't waste them. We won't let any 15-, 25-, 35-years-old lad with funny technological gadgets and up-to-date-fashion dresses ruin our moment. We will fight with ourselves to implement our aged ideas into a world that is not the same anymore, and thus we will condemn the youth to a living hell of frustration and ever repeating history and we won't understand that they are our only chance to make our desired chimera real.

Just to put it easy: we are fighting a Darth Vader, and the fighting itself is the easiest way to becoming one ourselves.

The heat in Granada

I saw ourselves as from a camera zooming from deep beneath our feet; from down on the boulevard with boiling, living people; smoke from the bars; a gleaming haze of yellow light which rises just over the first and a half floor; and the camera zooms out so close to the edge of the building as a sudden vertigo, and a further twisted life can be intuited in the corner of the sight where an also-gleaming darkness trembles in the aMazed streets fueling up the night. And so the zoom buzzes as it passes by, a shiver of our ears and the sky stays still just above our heads and Granada, so warm, so almost summer. So with short pants and t-shits and our browny skins so willing to touch themselves. So your eyes so your nice the blue behind. Each one a can of beer, alone in the terrace where I'll always love you. The heat is to sway our heads pleased and forever; long enough for the camera to stop, hold and fall, and make us shake this time with the violence of the ephemeral. And a sudden burden on my heart pulls hard from me and drags me down the terrace into a nightmare of mere night, of concrete vertigo of building edge when zooming my head down into the drugged hardness of the city paving.

I'll miss you so much Granada, your very essence.

火の鳥

火の鳥; or Phoenix, the fire bird, is a manga series by Osamu Tezuka, who is also known in Japan as the God of Manga. I know this manga since I was 15 or 16, but only few years later I have gotten two volumes of the series which formed the very basis of my philosophy of life.

I found these two books in a second-hand store. The books were hidden under a pile of other mangas and I remember they were kind of chip. When I bought them, I was already 20. Few weeks after that, I went to Germany for my first time (meaning also that I left Spain for my first time). I read the two books in only one afternoon and they impressed me deeply... I couldn't say how... It's rater a book that you read and operates a change in your engines... I can't explain it even today.

I kept on revisiting the books which, as a fire bird, rebirth over and over again each time I read them. They impress me further and always in new ways as if they were infinite. I always regretted that the work were unfinished (it seems like it was hard for Osamu Tezuka to write this comic, and also to release it). Even though, that two volumes work quite fine as a complete piece.

Yesterday, my very best friend Luchi gave me an unexpected and overwhelming birthday present. She went to Japan few months ago and brought for me two volumes of 火の鳥 in Japanese. I can't understand Japanese, but I don't care... the books are such a jewel!! She also said that there were two more volumes waiting in the store, so I should go back to Japan some day and get them myself. This puzzled me, since in the Spanish issue of the manga there are only two books. We resolved that maybe the Japanese edition had the same story within more books... not big deal.

Later on, I entered internet to check which differences existed among the issues of 火の鳥 in different languages, and there I saw it: Phoenix, the fire birth, in a never ending rebirth... It happens to have 12 volumes covering stories from a remote time (around 250 AD) up to a far future (2000 to 3000 AD)!!! I shut off the wikipedia and searched again for the book... only to find the same information. Again. For years, the two books which impressed me that deeply have had 10 more volumes awaiting for me to discover them!!!!!!! As I can't explain how these books influenced me, I can't explain either what a delight it is for me to find such a new never ending, never ended world!!!

On the road!

A post from the road: Budapest, a great city :D! Next destinations: Zagreb and Plivitce!

Regret

It was and is quite trendy for many people to say that they don't regret anything. The mantra is that what happened to you is what made you what you are, and thus you should regret nothing.

Here my point: regret is a human feeling, like hunger or thirst, you can't control it. I'm quite proud to say that I regret things, a lot of things, indeed, because I'm human and it's human to regret as it's human to make mistakes that you'll later regret. Now, if you wish, you can lie and tell yourself the same old story, that you don't regret a single thing. But, tell the truth: that very lame moment of your childhood, teen-years, whatever. That moment when you though you'd better be at home sleeping... yeah, the feeling you get recalling this, this is regret. And you can't control this.

If you want, you can tell: OK, I regret I've say/done this pretty lame thing... but it made me who I am and I wouldn't change it now, for changing that little bit could be a great deal in the configuration of my personality. This is much more honest than the cool statement about not regretting anything: recognizing that some things which provoke regret in you are also a part of yourself.

I regret. And there are many things that I would change.

Luíño 2.0

I'm uploading my CV in the web: http://lf-seoane.wikidot.com/

This is gonna be fun :D

To steal a book.

If everything works fine, in a few months I may be tackling some amazing projects which may also require some money. I mean, money enough to live for a while without any income. So it's clear that I have to spare some €€€. Straightforward actions: cheaper rum (though my beloved 'Admiral Vernon' is, if not the cheapest, quite close to it), cheaper activities... cheaper everything.

The other day I was to buy some books in this book trade fair of my home city (A Coruña). It's a problem for me every year if go to there because I want to buy a lot of stuff. And this year, the only 15 days that I've spent in my home city since January are exactly the days with this book trade fair... And there I was staring at that Complete Tales of Pushkin (here for a wikipedia link to Pushkin), or halting myself not to buy Neil Gaiman's Sandman (here for wiki)... The praises were way too large. In that moment I thought that the successive governments were not able to provide access to the culture for everyone, and I also though that if I wanted to spare I would have to choose between reading or eating... and even so, I ended up with two books from this great Bolaño guy whom I love so much: The Savage Detectives: A Novel [wiki] (which I commented the day before yesterday and which I'll comment again soon) and Putas Asesinas (Spanish Edition) (Killer whores, a small book with short stories and from which, it seems, there's no English translation yet... not even a wiki).

But then, now and again, the Providence!! It seems Providence likes me :) I began with the savage detectives. There, it's described (among a huge bunch of things) how a guy that we might think of as an alter ego from Bolaño steals books from libraries in Mexico DF. Great: there my way. I've decided it, and I'll do it. Now and on, first of all, I'll try to steal the book.

One hundred and thirty seven pages...

Few days ago I read that the first 100 pages of The savage detectives are part of the greatest of the literature in Castilian (Spanish) language... I didn't believe it. I was right. At least with the edition of the book that I have got. They are one hundred and thirty seven pages.

The Savage Detectives: A Novel

The value of a work

A piece of work is an abstract concept which we handle with more or less expertise. It's kind of driven by the supply and demand law, as any other object (concrete or abstract), and speculation might have a turn in its value as well. So, how do you appraise it??

Well before I graduated as a physicist, I had a casual chat with a friend and colleague at the University of Santiago de Compostela. The talk was on mathematical models for locust scourges and I digressed up to raise and fall apart of languages. This chat became, one and a half years latter, my thesis degree on the coexistence and competition among languages in a same region. Great!!

The price of a work is mainly crap and must be strongly renormalized before someone loses its head. Like a stone in go game, its value depends on the coordinates in which the stone is played, both spatial and temporal.

I was pretty proud of my thesis. It was not only the scientific job, but I'd also learnt a lot together with my mentor about how many random circumstances could devaluate a work well done (not necessarily talking about mine). Together with my thesis they followed: a participation in an international conference, prizes... a lot of stuff. I was never sure that I deserved what it was told about me, nor about my work. None of the recognitions. I went to Berlin with the idea of further researching, trying out my fitness to science and I found emptiness. Though (still do) about withdrawing from research.

Now, back in Galicia for vacation, I visited my former mentor and felt again what I enjoyed that much: the scientific chat about new problems, the maths puzzling me on the train joining the cities of Compostela and Coruña. The origins!! And when I came back home and checked on my single paper up to date, I discovered the greatest reward I could ever dream of!! I felt for first time in a while fulfilled (scientifically). Someone, without any further references to us, just by a daily reading of papers from arXiv, decided that ours was one of the bests new ideas and decided to post it in a blog. It also happens that the blog is held by people from MIT, how unexpected!!!

So I don't know yet what value a research might be worth. I worked into this project so many years ago and as a graduate student and I still get benefits from it. On the other hand, I rot in Berlin solving pointless arithmetical exercises and well far away from any real research project. Although I would devote my time to it, I don't have the feeling that this has any worth at all... Just as in Go game: each and every minute or stone so alike; played at a single space-time coordinate each of them becomes, one by one, the whole or the void.

Urge for Sex!! (Pulsión de Sexo!!)

And this is it!! Spain is, at once!!, Champion of the World!!!

I think it doesn't make any sense to describe the feelings or anything... each one has to experiment this and for each one it will be something different...

But something I'd like to describe was the Urge for Sex after the game. Everything began soon after the match against Germany, last Wednesday (it's incredible that only one week has gone by and that so many things happened!!). After that match, I said, there was party everywhere, even though I'm living in Berlin right now. German people were very proud of their team, but very polite and respectful, as far as it concerns me. Many of them joined the party held on the streets mainly by Spanish people. And then everything began, so suddenly: everyone was nasty, we wanted to get closer, touch each other. Women with women, men with men, women and men... any combination in any amount. The whole street was a sole heart and the wet pulsation would expand without limit if the fences of the dawn wouldn't reveal the madness... Before that, small crowds left the holy mass to become holy themselves through orgiastic performances in any corner of the nature.

...and the party went on, cause Spain became World Champion this Sunday and the streets and the throngs were unleashed again to the mouth of the Night, which would swallow each and all of them, one by one or all at a time, into its beat, horny guts with neon lights. And so on and so forth...

Then a waking up somewhere. Somewhere you know, somewhere you might not know so much... somewhere anyway. And a way back home, if necessary. The feeling that Holland people weren't so polite as the German ones, as far as it concerns me. I'd say, they weren't polite at all. But it doesn't matter: we are the Champions of the World.

Understanding religions...

...and so I decided it's not good to be sad and I though a good idea to remove almost any kind of sadness would be to think up a ritual. From now on, I perform this ritual and almost any kind of worries will be swept away :D

The ritual includes posting something in my blog (see yesterday's entry); leaving the place where I am, so that the place can be freshened from any bad vibration it could remain; and listening to some meaningful song... and once the song is over (though I might need to listen it twice...) I am happy again for a long long time!! I believed this would work... and it did!!

And so, this is how I came to understand ancient religions a little bit better. When, I guess, any belief or ritual had a reason to be and a reason to be shared. Autosuggestion of an individual extrapolated to a whole community. And latter the ritual itself would have an own entity, different from the former purpose. And latter on the ritual master would inherit the power of the original ritual and the religion would become a mean to gain more power... and so on... but this is only a guess...

Meanwhile, I'm happy again :D