Maia Nebula!

The world is sick, but my smile is intact.

Wednesday, July 28, 2004


I was supposedly going to bed, but then I found this... Check it out.
And I wonder... do they taste different from normal watermelons?
What would be a reason to buy one of these instead of a round one? Would it be that it's easier to stack in the fridge?
It's a completely different dimension, I tell you. I hope I don't go nuts if I go there, overwhelmed by so much tomorrow today. 

Se habla español

I was shown a fragment of a song in Spanish. It was supposed to be the most beautiful thing ever, something touching which should have moved my poor longing heart. However, I did not feel a thing. There was something about distance, too; not a single reaction from my soul. Why don't I like Spanish as much as I like other languages? I was taught to speak this language since I was born. However, I can't think of any elements that make it beautiful when I hear it, the way I do with English (it's always flowing, like wind and water), French (it's like whispering aloud), Japanese (there is always a sense of tenderness in it), or even Chinese, which I don't speak yet (it feels like singing all the time).

Spanish is, to me, a neutral yet malleable language. One to play with, like a toy, like building blocks. Acrónimos proves it. There is a lot I think I can do with Spanish, but nothing makes it sound special to me. Maybe funny, maybe clever, but not beautiful. Perhaps that's why I don't really appreciate that which is originally written in Spanish. If it's correctly written, if it follows every rule, it's fine with me.

Okay, I'm lying. Spanish is a language with an extremely broad vocabulary. The amount of funny expressions one can find in my native language is immense. I used to write a lot of stories in Spanish, looking for the right words just as a kid would look for the right piece of Lego to complete his monster truck. A person who speaks Spanish correctly is such a treasure for me... a delight to hear... but I feel no music in it. And all the lyrics from all those songs which melt people's hearts... I feel them so hollow... so cliché...

I need some sleep now. I'll keep thinking about this issue, for I don't hate all music in Spanish. Just... most of it.

Tuesday, July 27, 2004

J'ai peur de la langue française.
J'ai peur de la langue française.
J'ai peur de la langue française.
J'ai peur de la langue française.
J'ai peur de la langue française.
J'ai peur de la langue française.

Saturday, July 24, 2004

Vertical 2

They said I should go out.
And so I did.
Sunshine at last!
My legs were moving.
My blood was flowing.
I heard my voice.
I laughed.
I wished you were here.
I always wish you were here.
You will be here, right?
Just wait a second.
Time is faster than we think.
I will be there.
We will be somewhere.
Our hands will clasp.
Our eyes will meet.
I'll hear your voice.
They said I should go out.
I'll take you out with me.
Just wait a second.

Vertical 1

I have two flags right there.
Right there, on my binary showcase.
One says where I was born.
The other, where I live.
Both of them are the same.
Treasures, skies and seas, and blood.
I wanted to change one into the Rising Sun.
Variety seemed fashionable.
A flag so unique seemed fashionable.
Showing off this love seemed fashionable.
But then I thought it was a really stupid idea.
I'm not there.
I wish I were there.
My heart is there.
My heart is with him.
Maybe his heart is here too.
Our hearts are mingled.
I won't be there until my body is there.
I can't pretend that I'm all shiny there when I'm really here.
Speaking the language is not being there.
Eating the food is not being there either.
And I wasn't born there.
I wish I were, but I wasn't.
I can't deny my nationality.
My unvisable nationality.
I am what I am.
Flags will change when life does change.
Otherwise, I'm just a poseur.
And then I type again, co.

Thursday, July 15, 2004

Prelude to Weaving

It worked for Penelope...

Tuesday, July 13, 2004


I don't like Cirque du Soleil. It makes me think of disturbing things.

I don't see it as a normal art company comprising normal human beings. No. Cirque du Soleil is an unearthly realm where everyone is talented (they jump! they bend! they fly!). The inhabitants of the Cirque do no accept people who don't clap, who don't laugh at their classic, insipid humor. Thus, they kill them in the most pintoresque ways. It's so colorful, blood becomes yet another hue on their grotesquely flawless faces. I cannot describe the procedures.

I'm scared. I did not smile when the clowns gazed intently at an abandoned rope. The men who fly and the girl who bends have come back, they stand around my helpless body. I see their doll-like faces staring at me. The singer with the crystal antennae is howling nonsense with her ragged, yet clean voice. It hurts. They hurt.

Silence. Their china faces melt into play-doh smiles. The audience breaks into a hysterical applause. The act is done. The deed is done. The outcast is dead.

Monday, July 05, 2004


I was born twenty years ago. I wonder how things were then. A child is not only a couple's love product, a child is a person who grows and thinks and feels. I am a child. A person. Growing, thinking, feeling. I can't believe it... I won't believe it when I have my own children.

I must admit my first twenty years have been amazing. I am not an unhappy person. Not at all. Sometimes bored, sometimes misunderstood, totally inept in social terms, but never unhappy. I have met amazing people, and through them, I have been able to know much more about myself. So... this time hasn't been a big waste. Not at all.

I wish I had the right words, instead of all the stuff I've written... but... I'm just grateful for all the steps I've walked to be right here, where I am now. I'm twenty, and I stand in a segment of the road with a smile on my face.

Sunday, July 04, 2004


"The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double."
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning

She left her grayish green city once; she left for a town on the riverfront. When she returned she had so much luggage that she had to leave her heart behind. In order to make sure it wouldn't get lost or accidentally dumped into the river, she entrusted it to a boy who had saved her life once, when she was about to choke in her own monotonous breath. Despite the girl's constant clumsiness, the boy insisted in saving her over and over and over again. Too bad the boy had to take off too, to his own town of rice paddies and hot springs.

Home again, her suitcase turned into drawers, the girl placed her hand against her chest. She felt nothing. Her face turned pale for a brief moment, but rather than despairing, she immediately dashed to her front door, to wait. Her heart's custody couldn't have just run away and let her die... or could it? Who'd want a heart in these days?

Months passed, and her face had lost all possible color and her limbs began to shake. However, something was lying by her feet. The first package had arrived. Then a second, and then a third made their appearance. The girl was receiving envelopes with hundreds of thousands of heartbeats to go on, plus a lifelong promise. When the promise arrived in a big box, she began to feel a trace of another heartbeat mingled with hers. She didn't need an explanation to understand.

"It will be impossible to get it back the way I knew it," she pondered every night in her bed. "If he comes to me someday, to my grayish green city, he will bring me a bigger heart, but we'll have to share it. I don't mind, though."

She smiled then, placing her hand over her chest to feel its silence, picturing life when she would turn left in her horizontal slumbers to find the slow ticking of a piece of soul she had lost so long ago.