Tuesday, 31 March 2009


A very short exercise, amid a storm of thought, aboard Cristian´s automobile, swiftly heading towards my abode on Saturday night, scribbled swiftly in the notepad within my mobile phone. So XXI siècle!

Last verse is stolen from magnificent replicant Roy, as played by Rutger Hauer, in the film rendition of Philip K. Dick story Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? Better known as Ridley Scott´s Blade Runner. Please forgive my artistic thievery, I just love the phrase!


I fear.
I fear pain.
I fear dejection.
I fear abjection.
I fear cessation,
Of existence.

I fear illness.
I feel aching.
I fear fading
To fade away,
Like tears in the rain.


Monday, 30 March 2009

Golden Son

Dearest friends,

First of all my sincerest apologies for neglecting these pages last week. I’ve been flooded by worries and toil, which muddled my ability to devote to this haven the time it deserves. At the same time, the disembarkment of loved ones in these Southern shores, prompted me to devote physical time to pay them much needed respects. So my love lies with my wonderful in-laws and beautiful ephebe Roman, my remaining spiritual child.

It is paramount to make the ones we care about aware of our affections, since if failing to do so, we could regret it terribly in time of their passing. I was recently affected by this occurrence, having lost my first spiritual child, Diego. I have not yet recovered.

I will leave you with eclectic verses, aimed at those who mean the world to me. An elegy to the parted and a eulogy to the one who remains, so that he is granted the strength to grow, develop and expand.
A warm cup of green tea, to cleanse the body and mind, is proposed to better enjoy these stanzas.


Oh dear sons of mine,
To my life what have you done?
I gave you knowledge,
Though you have given me pain…

Golden Sun,
Golden Son.
To gaze in your hair
Is to envision the star.

But reality be told,
You are child of the Moon,
Brother of dark Dionysus,
Cousin of the great God Pan.

When others see light in your eyes,
They fail to see the gloom
I have always recognized
To be your sinister doom.

For it is you who has courted
The nymphs at Lake Nemi,
And battled the keeper of the sacred grove,
And ran ecstatically naked
In the forests of everlasting night,
Snatching ambrosia from the Immortals.

Your fate was sealed,
You should pay your profanity
And when the wrath is appeased
Return to innocence’s rest.

You are now back in the land of Selene,
Where your painful sores will be cared,
It is now time for your mind
To rise from slumberous scares.

Poppy dreams are not a feat
Fit for those who shouldn’t sleep,
But live to tell the tale
Of the Goddess sacred feasts!


Saturday, 21 March 2009

Kansas City, here I come...

When invited to dine at local chow den Kansas, I always feel joyous. I simply adore the insane exaggeration of the place, the wishful Americanization of willing Argentines who deceive their senses for a little while… In their belief that the surrounding poverty is not there, and they are beautiful and privileged, and well deserve the excess.

I am grateful to have been there a couple of times, but I have to say I can only endure that over-satiated hunger only once every two or three months!

As wise Jewish thinker Joseph Aaron well said: …”We should partake, but carefully, wisely. To turn away, to reject is insane, stupid, harmful. But to grab with both hands can be equally destructive”...
The verses that follow are my afterthoughts on last night. I very much recommend a soothing and digestive Lemon Ginger tea, for you to bear the plethora of food related sensations!

The image belongs to the Seven Deadly Sins collection by Jacques Callot


Kansas. Meat. Gluttony.
An hour wait
Doesn’t seem too bad
To munch on those sweet bits
Of pork flesh.

I risk sounding barbaric,
For the veggie loving crowd,
But I can’t help to love
The atavistic decadence
Of shredding meat from bone.

Voluptuousness in times of need,
Echoes of Roman feasts,
Gorging in the delight
Of olden banquets.

Raucous laughter,
Pretentiousness and show,
Jarring exposure…
From those affluent and crass
Children of familiar fortune.

Pour old Tabasco abundantly,
Devour to the point of excess,
Intoxicate yourself with victuals…
And at the end you will need
To purge, to remedy or rest.


Wednesday, 18 March 2009

The Wild Bunch

Eerie mix, which were once called "Club A-Go-Go", "The Cool Ones", "Factory Teens" or "Argie Expats in Barcelona"...
My promised ode, to the night at Live!... Can I Get a Witness?


The Wild Bunch was waiting
For the chance
To get back
To the Lime Light…

And so it did,
And so we danced,
And it was wild,
And we got drunk!

And crazy old songs were played
Which reminded us
Of another time
And age.

When we were younger,
And still our dreams
Were afar…
It all became possible
Just for one night.


Monday, 16 March 2009


I’ve been feeling much too lazy lately; I’ve been feeling much too nostalgic lately… The bitterness of Summer’s end, the staleness of my current activities. The wait… always the wait. And in such a state, I look into my back pages and miss certain friends.
To one of them, while sipping Pu Ehr, I wrote these words…


Oh my Cole,
My own particular Cole!
Such adorable garb,
From the Scottish pretence
Of a drunken lad.

And the Music,
And the Words,
And the Art
Of sharing and living
Bonded us from the start.

Time and toil
Have seen us part,
Then bring us together
For another walk
In timeless gardens and parks.

I miss your wit
And your marvellous spark,
But, as I knew from the start…
We’ll get together again
And share the most wonderful time.


…”Ev'ry time we say goodbye
I die a little,
Ev'ry time we say goodbye
I wonder why a little,
Why the Gods above me
Who must be in the know
Think so little of me"...

A young Cole Porter on Lake Maxinkuckee in Culver City.

Friday, 6 March 2009


I had the weirdest dream last Wednesday night, I dreamt of the feathered snake biting its tail. My grandmother Velia and Aunt Mimi were there too, both dearly departed ones. Amidst the fogs of Morpheus, I was able to pick up my mobile phone from under my pillow - dreadfully modern I know, but necessary believe me – and wrote the following phrase: “Unexpectedly, the feathered snake, bit its tail”.
Ouroboros was well known in ALL ancient civilizations and represents the “ALL IS ONE”, the eternal return, the wheel of life, Ying and Yang if you will. I am grateful for this dream, which is something scholars, alchemists and mystics of all ages have strived to achieve.
I toast with fresh green tea for a new beginning, for me and for all!


The feathered snake
Bit its tail.

Water poured frantically,
Jungle like.
Odours and moist,
Subdued by the scent
Of Indian incense.

Heavy slumber
From the wild monsoon,
In the savage lands
Of the World´s End.

Rhythmic fall.
Epic cascades
Over the city,
Denying its civilized flair.

And still…
It smells of Jungle,

The city will pass.
The daily strife
Of passers by
Will cease to be.
And only will remain
The Wild.

Will rise and strike

The proud egos
Which rule this land
Will be shattered
None will prevail.

Their time will pass,
As I will too,
And so these words
Will turn to dust…

As unexpectedly
As the feathered snake
Bit its own tail.

Pedet finis aborigine
εν το παν

Look for the End in the Beginning
All is One

Monday, 2 March 2009

Heads & Freaks & Mods of the World Unite!

Friday was a blast... Most wonderful rendezvous ever! I´m as excited as a 10 year who´s just arrived from a trip to his favourite amusement park.

The experiment worked yet again, it worked as smoothly as it did a decade ago. Some faces were the same, some are gone and some hopefully will join us next time. I have yet to organize my thoughts in order to properly chronicle the night, but it will shortly be here. Lady Promise.
Thank you Wild Bunch: Loli, Lolo, Martin, Bimbo, Annie and my dearest sister Lu for being able to turn back the wheels of time to a happier place on Earth.
We deserve it!

The one in the picture est moi, as taken by Lolitown my partner in crime, whilst spinning some floorshaking marvels from my lovely customized polka dotted laptop.

Sunday, 1 March 2009


... there is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable:
I simply am not there"...


During a lapse of almost three years from 2004 till late 2006 I coexisted with my shadow. It was at first, a creation of mine, spawn out of boredom, idleness and despair. I was sitting comfortable in my swanky office at the top floor of Club Otto Zutz in Barcelona when I first had the thought of it. In the beginning, he was to be the character of a novel I never finished - though the manuscripts still remain - and eventually he rose to a status where I was becoming a victim of my own ruse.
My alter ego, Christian was increasingly taking pre-eminence in my daily life and even my dreamworld. It felt as if he were a twin brother, who certainly had a life of his own, his own relations and a very well crafted persona. He eventually vanished, leaving those who had met him confused and saddened.
This is an homage to the existence of my twin, hope he can live somewhere across the globe, happily ever after. He, who fancied himself a bit of a Shelley, crafted these words

Suggested tea choice for today is plain English, the sort that is round and goes right in the kettle.


This is the winter of our discontent, in Shakespearean words I note that it is I who cannot bear a single thought of this existence. The vagueness of thought, the disappearance of the tantalizing moments, which make life worthwhile in exchange for the tiredness of the soul, has drained me all contempt I had for life as it was.
The dreamlike imagination I so much helped grow since my childhood seems to be fading; there is war between perception and the realms of the mind. Which is stronger? Which is finer?
Looking at my back pages I realize youth is like a bird fleeing the warm heart of a home, a home which disappears at some point, becoming a lost Arcadia where we long to return though we cannot. I fathom this is the very point of life, a race where the point of no return becomes the realization that only the start mattered, that there is no winning this race without losing yourself in the course of it.
I have dreamed and longed of so many Utopias, I have fancied myself so beautiful and sublime in my pretty syllogisms, just to become the shadow of what I was, when I thought I knew the point of the race. When I imagined I might even win.
Only now it becomes obvious that the very point of the race is to keep the soul oblivious and distracted from reality. But what is reality? Is it tangible form and matter, is it thought or is it feeling and perception?
You may roam centuries dwelling in these conceptions, attempt to find illumination from better minds, but in the end you’ll come to the pointless realization of the futility of it all. We are but pawns in somebody’s game; as the little mice imagine their little lab mazes to be their world, never noticing the white coat gazing down at them.


Prometheus Unbound
Percy Blysse Shelley

"Ere Babylon was dust,
The Magus Zoroaster, my dear child,
Met his own image walking in the garden.
That apparition, sole of men, he saw.
For know there are two worlds of life and death:
One that which thou beholdest; but the other
Is underneath the grave, where do inhabit
The shadows of all forms that think and live
Till death unite them and they part no more...."
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