lunes, 27 de febrero de 2012

Hovering bulbs.

Close your eyes, turn off all the exterior lights, natural and artificial, so you can really find your own.

Familiarize yourself with it... doesn't feel funny that you have to take time to understand something that is a part of you?...

Once you are certain of what you see, play with it, turn it around, twist it, magnify it, let it grow larger and larger, bigger, more powerful than ever before.

With the eyes still closed, start turning on the rest of lights again, one at a time, as you may want to leave some of them off.

Finally, lift your lids again, and feel the brighty lights twinkling all around you, vibrating in the same wavelength...

Isn't amazing to feel all the lights in harmony, that harmony you just created?...

Good night.

sábado, 7 de enero de 2012

Nuevo año, nuevos propósitos.

Entre ellos, una idea:

Resumir lo mejor de cada día en un tamaño menor al de un tweet.

01-01: The Eiffel Tower and The Missing Countdown.
01-02: The Day We Shouted "Facebook!".
01-03: Mighty Storm on the Coast.
01-04: A "Hoornie" Surprise.
01-05: Tasty Goodbye, Foul Illness.
01-06: Sleep tight, dream hard.


miércoles, 14 de septiembre de 2011

Creativity needs The Crazy: A cowardly approach.

It was Monday night, and as all Monday nights, I had the objective of closing the door to the garage.

A dark, humid, garage, a place that no light sources are curious to look at, and a big, yet fragile wooden door yet unlocked, opened to the max, hidden behind the fixed panels on it's side, as playing non-existence.

A garage after all... so I closed the door, key-to-lock, lock-to-place, me-to-bed, asking myself nothing about that common situation.

Long had passed since the last time I imagined a monster.

A week later, same quest, but something had change.

Now, it had been three days since it started again, that feeling of creativity, of curiosity, of being able to imagine strongly all the enjoyable scenarios you normally aren't allowed in what we call "real life".

Now, I could again meditate with a smile at my face and a self-made movie occupying a no-space at my forefront.

Now, I could again design weird games based on similarities between Apples and Asses.

Now, I could again turn into an unbelievable coward in front of that opened door, looking at the deep, deep stomach of that garage where monsters and demons have been trying to surprise me since I was a child, waiting for the moment I expose my back to launch their fatal blow.

That day, I laughed.

After I closed the door in a forcefully slow pace, my ethereal self running in a haste, of course, but I laughed.

After I passed throught the jailed window of the basement, vividly imagining that something was going to break throught it and grab my legs, but I laughed.

And I laughed because, from my new perspective and knowledge, this experience had taught me something.

Long has the world being talking about creative people. All kind of geniuses, mathematicians, philosophers, artists mostly, who always seem to have a lot of illogical and uncommon behaviours and habits, inherent oddities.

Being normal examples on twisted minds Van Gogh, Beethoven or Gaudi, with many others helping to fill whole books with fun facts about their crazyness, one can't help but ask himself: It is necessary The Crazy to be creative?

Well, as far as I know, no, not really,

it is the other way round.

The other night, I was scared, scared by something that wasn't there, clearly imagining it as almost real and material. I was curious about this reaction, mostly because I had not been scared in a long, long time, and I wanted to know why was that, given that I'm constantly exposed to situations that might would have scared me in the past.

Or maybe I just wanted to rationalize an excuse to recover my lost manliness.

Either way, I made it work taking my now usual approach to problems, language psychology:

Under this light, I define creativity as: Capacity to explore (imagine) the highest number of outcomes a given situation may have, in the most coherent way possible.

Given that everything a human being understand are symbols created out of perceptual stimuli (senses and emotions), "the most coherent way possible" needs, by force, to incorporate the most vivid stimuli, that is, haunt you with images, emotions, smells, sounds... trying to convince you that the situation is real, so the simulation is succesful and you can imagine what could be done in that situation to reach the best outcome.

My guess is that, as we are mainly machines of problem solving, and we are always taking decisions based on the variables we know (or think we know), we all, in some point, get to the beginning of the "crazy" scenarios, but only when someone is being creative he is able to communicate the possible problems to themselves in such a strong way that they get trapped into the simulation. They get to imagine a new world of outcomes forcing their own suspension of disbelief.

Ironically, and going to extremes, crazy people, who we normally think about as "inconsistent minds", can only be that much crazy if they are capable of being extremely consistent in their internal language.

It is well known, too, that strong internal language, and entusiasm and belief in an idea, is contagious beyond limits, so it is a no-brainer that a lot of artists, whose job at the end is guiding you throught any form of experience (convince you/transmit what they feel and think), are considered crazy by their own merits.


Next time you poo your pants in front of a darkened corridor, cheer up!, you are a highly influential human being in that moment!

Wihich is useless because you are alone.

And you smell bad.

Or well, let's say all of this is bad science and just go with "Humans like to be scared".

Happy door slamming!

jueves, 11 de agosto de 2011

On how to find humanity:

Imagine yourself in a wild, natural environment, trees and rocks wherever your sight chooses to stop by, huge groups of flowers of the season waving with the wind and the stealthy presence of little animals all your senses but your guts are actively denying.

Now focus your attention on the highest peak of that far away mountain range, and feel how your mind zooms in, rapidly projecting yourself into that particular place, filling the details with close-ups from things you enviosioned earlier, as if you were now effectively in that exact spot, with the addition of a particular feeling, like if you were floating there, not really touching the ground.

Somehow, as far as you can tell you are now in that highest peak, in an identical scenario to the first one,

Smelling the same scents,

Feeling the same enjoyment,

Spoting the same groups of trees,

Watching in awe, far away, the same mountain range, with an identical highest peak, where you are starting to project yourself by now, in an ethernal, magical looping tunnel of beauty.

Now that you are there, constantly moving forward in this tunnel, I want you to look in detail everything you spot on the way, and tell me:

Do you manage to see any right angles?

If not, go on and start changing aspects of the scenarios you pass by, introduce some things and erase anothers, start analysing every little aspect of every little thing that you imagine, as long as there are no human created objects or previous human alteration of the environment.

Are there any right angles yet?

If not, do it now for real, go to the closest place from your actual position where nature reigns over man and focus on every object and thing. Ask them the question: have you any right angle?

Even if you are traveling in a bus or train, you can look outside and trace all the right angles you see, then ask yourself: is this one produced by man?

You should start feeling so weird but so good in a brief moment, curiosity filling your mind on the matter of the right angles, your head working totally on a single matter at an amazing speed you can only try to measure by the number of images that flash in your mind one after another, like an incoherent film that somehow gets the message across.

Mission accomplished yet?

I doubt it, and I state this:

You are not able to see any right angles in nature, for they are not existant.

If you find any right angle, rejoice youself, for you have found humanity.

Now go on, prove me wrong.

(Without Googling up the direct answer, you cheating bastard)

domingo, 26 de junio de 2011

Eldercity;;; Parte 4. Primera barrera.

Si no sabes lo que es ElderCity pincha aquí: ElderCity Parte 1.


En el tipo de vida que lleva Wolowt, los días no cuentan, el tiempo pasa frente a los indiferentes ojos de una mente activa concentrada en la costumbre. Es cuando el cuerpo se apaga y se resguarda en la seguridad de un capullo hermético que nuestros pensamientos se atreven a abandonarlo y nuestras ilusiones insatisfechas salen a divertirse.

Por lo tanto, hablaremos de las noches.

En la primera noche, nada en absoluto.

Como tampoco en la segunda.

Ni siquiera en la tercera.

Sin embargo, la cuarta es especial...
es especial porque no hubo cuarta.

Es especial porque ningún ápice de seguridad se palpó esa noche.
Es especial porque transcurrió delante de la hoguera, echando vistazos temerosos por detrás del hombro de cuando en cuando, en dirección a la puerta, esperando o, más bien temiendo, cualquier tipo de sonido que despertase un cuerpo que no dormía.

Es especial porque, si bien no fué provechosa, reparadora o tranquila, fué desacostumbrada, incómoda y anormal.



Demorado por la imposibilidad de unos ojos adormilados a esa hora de la tarde, Wolowt se sorprendió dejando abrirse la puerta sin correr cerrojo alguno o darle un segundo de importancia.

sábado, 25 de junio de 2011

ElderCity;;; Parte 3.Rechazo.

Si no sabes lo que es ElderCity pincha aquí: ElderCity Parte 1.


Preguntándose algo muy parecido a ello, nuestro heróico, intrépido abrepuertas se decide a echar otro vistazo al interior del sobre.

¡Un papel! ¡Un papel que más bien era un pequeño residuo de lo que se adivina una carta yacía ahora en su palma, con tan sólo tres letras de lo que se presumía un vocablo, cortado en ambas direcciones por una curva irregular y violenta, abismo de inexistencia, pegamento con un pasado reciente, anterior al sonido tras la puerta, anterior a que la trajese...


¿Por qué alguien habría de tomarse la molestia de traer una carta hasta aquí y luego rasgarla, así, sin más?

¿Era su plan que la leyese, mas decidió arrepentirse en el último momento?

¿Acaso se había demorado demasiado en atender el pórtico?...
No, nadie pudiera ser tan impaciente...

¿O su deseo podría ser que recompusiese la carta, como un pasatiempo... un enigma... un puzzle?

Miró de nuevo las tres letras, tres que no parecían significar nada, cuya presencia tenía más de tormento que de ayuda, así que, ¿por qué no?¡Fuera de aquí!¡Arrástrate en la brisa con tus íntimas amigas, si eres capaz de alcanzarlas, despojo tullido!

Malhumorado, estrujó el sobre con las manos y lo arrojó cuan lejos pudo, en compañía de su furia tras esa línea que dividía su vida en dos dimensiones opuestas.

Tras esa puerta que rara vez dejaba pasar el aire.


viernes, 24 de junio de 2011

ElderCity;;; Parte 2. Problema.

Si no sabes lo que es ElderCity pincha aquí: ElderCity Parte 1.


..*Knock.Knock KNOCK!*

-¡Sea quien fuere, le ruego que espere!¡Tan sólo ocho o diez minutos, lo que en abrir me tomare!

Un sonido rasgado con olor a escuela y silencio de nuevo.

Los minutos pasan, y Wolowt llega a la puerta.

Suspiros obligados, cadenas y cerrojos abriéndose, resonando desde el fondo de un alma y un chirrido que bien acusa algo más que una muda añoranza por el aroma del barniz.

Otro suspiro, al pensar en el mundo de distancia y esfuerzo físico que separa el trayecto del suelo a los ojos. Y otro más, orquestado por crujidos no muy melódicos, al recoger con manos temblorosas aquel sobre que ensuciaba el porche con su insultante, limpia blancura.

No sólo un sobre,
un sobre abierto.

Un sobre abierto y totalmente vacío.

En tanto que Wolowt se disponía a entrar a la casa con su nueva y liviana adquisición de material reciclable para su chimenea preferida y, como para querer contradecir nuestra simpática narración, un buen puñado de trozos de papel caen del sobre, tras lo que salen a cabalgar las corrientes de aire que siempre se forman en momentos como aquel.

¡Maldición! ¿Qué habría en esos papeles que su existencia desafía los sentidos de un hombre viejo y un narrador artero por igual?