Merry Xmas!!!

Yule Blessings!

Happy St. Andrew's Day!

"O glorious St. Andrew, you were the first to recognize and follow the Lamb of God. 

With your friend, St. John, you remained with Jesus for that first day, 

for your entire life, 

and now throughout eternity. 

 As you led your brother, St. Peter, to Christ and many others after him, 

draw us also to Him. 

Teach us to lead others to Christ solely out of love for Him 

and dedication in His service. 

Help us to learn the lesson of the Cross 

and to carry our daily crosses without complaint 

so that they may carry us to Jesus."

Amen.

Hail! Bright Cecilia

Saint Cecilia with an Angel by Orazio Gentileschi

"Hail! Bright Cecilia, Hail to thee!

Great Patroness of Us and Harmony!
Who, whilst among the Choir above
Thou dost thy former Skill improve,
With Rapture of Delight dost see
Thy Favourite Art
Make up a Part
Of infinite Felicity.
Hail! Bright Cecilia, Hail to thee!
Great Patroness of Us and Harmony!"

Wild Spirit Awakening

"Walk tall as the trees;
live strong as the mountains,
be gentle as the spring winds,
keep the warmth of the summer sun in your heart,
and the great spirit will always be with you"

Stay Tuned...

After going through a lot all these years... 

all I can say is :

I'm so glad to be alive

I'll be back soon...

El 2 de Octubre - No se Olvida!

The Tlatelolco Massacre

Pumpkin Season has Finally Arrived!!!

VIVA MÉXICO!

México Lindo y Querido!

Foto por Gaston Saldana

Vacante

Autor : Matthias Müller

Las ciudades viejas… se están desvaneciendo.

Opacadas por su historia, las ciudades viejas languidecen, se desintegran y desaparecen.

El año en el que nací se construyó una ciudad nueva, una ciudad blanca para el futuro, una ciudad que vino de la nada.

Cuando nací, empezaron a construir una ciudad en medio de la sabana. Haciendo una cruz en el polvo rojo, hicieron planes para el mundo nuevo.

Los hombres pusieron una cruz dentro de la arena roja, dentro del polvo amorfo que cubre la tierra. La ciudad descansa su figura lejos del desierto.

En el día de inauguración, una ciudad reluciente es revelada, con edificios que ya no están anclados a la tierra. Un lugar no para ahora, pero para el futuro, una ciudad modelo para el hombre  anticipado y que va a nacer.

"Puedes terminar tu vuelo cuando quieras", me dijeron, "pero llegarás a otra ciudad absolutamente igual. Sólo el nombre del aeropuerto cambia."

El "hombre nuevo" no ha llegado todavía.

Esa noche yo soñé que la ciudad estaba vacía de gente otra vez, abandonada antes de que fuera habitada.

…los habitantes anónimos, viniendo de regiones diferentes, de mundos diferentes.

Las ciudades se unen en un beso. Buscando a otros de su mismo tipo, llevan a ningún lugar.

Mi sombra --una de mis sombras-- se extiende enfrente de mí, luego se escurre debajo de mis pies y uniéndose a mí.

Deambulaba --perdido en el sueño de un desierto infinito.

Mejor hubiera  contado una historia diferente.

Me he convertido en vacío. Soy un extraño a los otros y a mí mismo y me rehúso a pretender que soy familiar o que tengo una historia pegada a mis talones. Soy una copia de carbón de mi forma. He sido tirado dentro de todo esto desde otro mundo y ya no puedo hablar tu lenguaje. Soy un extraño y me estoy moviendo.

El vacío está escondido debajo de una capa gruesa de señales. La ciudad repite sus señales para que pueda empezar a existir.

Todo lo que nos rodea corre hacia la desaparición. Nuestro breve momento es un flash, un destello arqueado que sirve para iluminar la cara de la muerte.

La ciudad se basta a sí misma…un escenario vacío que podría servirse a sí mismo sin actores.

Esta utopía obstinada de belleza se ha convertido en un museo, laboriosamente regimentado, conservando los restos de un sueño destruido hace mucho tiempo. El deseo de permanencia lo hizo un patrimonio intocable, un cadáver exquisito paralizado por rigor mortis.

La muerte es vista en público.

Todo lo que queda ahora es mudo.

Sólo mi chiflido rompe el silencio. Todo lo demás se mantiene callado.

Árboles y piedras son sólo lo que son.

La ciudad no cuenta su pasado, pero lo contiene, como las líneas de una mano, escritas en la esquina de las calles, las planicies, los campos vastos; cada segmento marcado en turno con rasguños y hendiduras.

Cae la noche.

Los edificios atraen los relámpagos.

Cae la noche. Las ventanas se encienden.

En la noche, poniendo tus oídos en el piso, a veces puedes oír una puerta azotarse.

Persuasion

I can listen no longer in silence. 

I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. 

You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. 

Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. 

I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago.

 Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. 

I have loved none but you. 

Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. 

You alone have brought me to Bath.

 For you alone, I think and plan. 

Have you not seen this? 

Can you fail to have understood my wishes?

 I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. 

I can hardly write.

 I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. 

You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! 

You do us justice, indeed. 

You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men.

 Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W. 

 I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. 

A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never. 

― Jane Austen

Immortal Beloved

"Monday evening, 6th July.
You are suffering, you my dearest creature – only now do I realize that letters have to be posted very early, on Mondays – Thursdays – the only days when the mail is delivered to K. - you are suffering - Oh, wherever I am, you are with me, I talk to myself and to you[,] arrange [it] that I can live with you, what a life!!!! as it is!!!! without you – Pursued by the goodness of mankind here and there, the goodness that I wish to deserve as little as I deserve it. – Man’s humility towards man – this pains me – and when I consider myself in relation to the universe, what am I and what is the man who is called the greatest? – And yet, – therein lies the divine element in man. I weep when I think that you will probably not receive first news of me until Saturday. However as much as you love me - I love you even more deeply, but - but never hide yourself from me - Good night – as I am taking the baths I must go to bed. ⟨oh go with me, go with me⟩ Oh God - so near! so far! Is not our love a true edifice in Heaven - but also as firm as the firmament. –"

...only a passionate man like Beethoven was, could write that! :')

Unending Love

I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times...

In life after life, in age after age, forever.

My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs,

That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms,

In life after life, in age after age, forever.

Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, it's age old pain,

It's ancient tale of being apart or together.

As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge,
Clad in the light of a pole-star, piercing the darkness of time.
You become an image of what is remembered forever.

You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount.
At the heart of time, love of one for another.
We have played along side millions of lovers,
Shared in the same shy sweetness of meeting,
the distressful tears of farewell,
Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.

Today it is heaped at your feet, it has found its end in you

The love of all man's days both past and forever:

Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life.

The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours -

And the songs of every poet past and forever.

― Rabindranath Tagore, Selected Poems

There's a Storm Coming...

“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

An you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about.”
― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore