The broken Mist


Posted in Uncategorized by Jiménez-Smith on September 7, 2008

What doesn’t kill you, makes you stranger.

Yes. I’m back. 10:27 am and I don’t know what I want to do for the rest of my life, maybe not living. Ten minutes later I read some poetry as nursery rhyme and yet again I manage to feel miserable within the field of my lameness. But not again, I decided to yield and I crashed into the moonlight glisten of the white cadillac, parked in the middle of the silence. I know that my back aches even more that when I’m deejaying. I’ve become quite a name in only four weeks.

Certain people has told to other young and alive ladies and gentlemen who to attend a place just to listen to my musical taste and my lack of maturity. Senses do not count anymore, just the wits to connect with the girls who want a variety of things. I’m amazed. They have requested for La Casa Azul the third Friday, already they want Los Soberanos and still, Yelle and Cut///Copy are the most cheered. My mixing is getting better; I badly would liked to say that about my way of reading poetry. Clearly, since that day, I have not proposed myself for the reading out loud in the classroom. I have been able only to read at nights, silently and particularly slow, as if something was lost.

Had I the abilities of my whole life growing in the same way, I would not be here, writing. But something comforts me. Rhythm. Musicality and its pattern. Oh, and I’m getting well paid for it. And something motivates me. Fridays. I only live the week to see how much can I improve and now that I’ll be carrying out the thing with two turntables I’m willing not to stop. My only motivation lies on a bed of uncomfortable hueva. Henry Miller says that the real catch is to fall in love. Then you’ll be performing everything as a ghost since you think her all the time and whatever happens you are not conscious at all. The trick comes when you forget that someone but you manage to keep the boredom and the dullness of life.

If you’re good at something never do it for free.

I am not good at stepping out into the light. I have talent cutting the edges of my record plastic sleeves. I have talent to sit in the middle of a library, reading Woolf’s delighting essays until some clerk comes to me with a pretty universal face of annoyed worker. Probably a similar face to the one of the music store lad who eagerly shows me the chinese turntables and who thinks I’m interested and it is not that I am not. It’s the fact that I have no money to buy new equipment and I just toy around with every single Korg synthesizer after the detailed explanation of his. These are things I know, I’ve checked them. I just want some right to be in this part of the store.

La Rubia Tarada

Today, I only want to know how Miller’s end his novel. How the messengers of America are all black, crippled, blind, deaf, wheel-chaired, frenchmen, mexicans among others. I have but one goal. Buying a microKorg and fly away to Argentina (maybe even Prague) and founding a synth-dark band, after months of being in the subway playing. That is my goal for happiness. In the middle of the mystic river, I’ll write in this place that is not My Space, but the reader’s space. The author is dead, I’m a writer.

Orden del día.

-Escribir una tesis de Civil War

-Irme a vivir a otro lado considerando que cuando me vieron pintado del Joker en mi casa casi me corren.

-Irme a Buenos Aires

-Ir a la tumba de Henry Miller

-Dejar de ser tan schemer.

The postman brought me this.

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2 Responses

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  1. Gabi said, on September 9, 2008 at 1:47 am

    Por que cambas de blog sin avisar?? I missed you

  2. Lady Stardust said, on September 18, 2008 at 5:05 am

    OOOOHHHH, is that a T. Rex vinyl??? It calls me…

    Good to have you back. Send you whitetrashy hellos :P

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