Post-it notes

Undated, and collected with Stickies. Spanning a long period of time, a number of lovers, and a troublesome menagerie of writing inspirations. Implications abound.

Quiero ser academico, historiador, filosofo, muerto de hambre, feliz, quijotesco, padrino, soñador, amante, campestre, ciudadano, intelectual, cumbiero, traficante, sagaz, cocinero, hermano, futbolero, trabajador, escritor, atorrante, sabio, optimista, influencial, piropeador, sonriente, sorpresivo, libertador, guia, payaso, salame, tranquilo, consejero, hamburriento, abogado, carpintero, lider, humanista, politico, elegante, globalista, boyescau, cantautor, caballero andante, peluquero, tio, sobrio, desgraciado, dador alegre, intrepido, fulbolero, honrado, decisivo, campeon, medio bobo, acurrucador, simplistista, humilde, buen cabeceador, testosteronico, insolente, compasivo, buen mozo, piloto, armador, representante, honorable, maloliente, cachirulo, aventurero, parrandero, idealista, comediante, libertario, radical, senil.

Y tambien quería imaginarte junto a mi.

Pero sé, que en esta vida, no se puede ser todo lo que se quiere.

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I have found the way in which I can be at peace with the Christian faith, as my intellect moves towards a higher truth in a manner similar to how my flesh already has. But as I move back towards discovering the absolute, the higher truth, and how you and i are going to shape it, the calling to re-examine the sacred texts becomes stronger.

Let's say, for example, that I could learn one hundred verses on the bible. Nothing fancy, but really just the ones that make up the canon. The ones that make the set core of beliefs. The ones that might not be politicized, but reflect the human ideals delineated in a spiritual realm.

It's the legacy of globalization on religion.

And I almost wish you could do the same, and then we could compare each other. And discover each other. And love each other.

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i admit that i have a
seemingly everlasting
existential anguish based on the broader combination
of my life experiences,
but calling me emo? thats offensive

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El libro era la frontera que separaba mis confundidos intentos y tu forzada apatía. Las paredes, semiblancas, entonaban un silencio tan profundo que se escuchaba todo. Acurrucado en tu hombro, escuché mis miedos, dos infancias, 7 años de sueños fallidos, tres de leyes, lo poco que te quedaba de Angelina, y al amor, que empacaba sus cosas despacito, porque no tenía ganas de irse. Y encima yo no creía en las fronteras. Que boludo.

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Fundar una productora de documentales.
Fundar una caridad.
Ser fiambrero.
Viajar a cuatro paises, al menos.
Ir a Israel como parte de mi derecho judio.
Ir a los Emiratos Arabes Unidos para una conference internacional.
Visitar la biblioteca de Bs. As.
Ver una obra en el teatro Colon.
Free hugs.
Volver por Canada.

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Maybe I did understand her. In the end, I knew she was going through as tough a time as I was, yet without any of us facing real suffering. A deep consciousness haunted us, because our connection to our respective background gave us a terrible sense of guilt about our privileged ways. Our simple privilege.

He was a strange figure, who I wanted to know more about. I also wanted to give him a snarky comment. Stab him with words. Pierce him with a stare. Destroy him with a handshake. But I knew that there would be no winners. Just three losers. Someone had to give it up first. And I didn't want to let it be me.

I'll remember the turtles, the drawings on your hands, and that big rock in Gayley.