Cerebro fundido

Y...uf... uno termina con el cerebro medio fundido.
Acepto ideas de cerebros fundidos; alguna sensación rescatada después de todo un día de laburo, sirve. Lo que te pasa por la cabeza cuando te están dejando por otra persona, sirve. Qué se te viene a la mente cuando digo "pasado", sirve. En qué estado estaba tu cerebro cuando te dijo "prefiero que seamos amigos", sirve. Y también qué alquimias se llevan a cabo en la materia gris cuando nos va bien, no? pasa que siempre es más placentero torturarse con las pifiadas de la vida.
Todas esas imágenes que recolectan casi sin reparar en ello (o haciéndolo) me son útiles, escarben ahí.
Me alimento de ideas, y en tiempos de escasez cualquier ayuda viene bien, aparte después les regalo el dibujo (supongamos que puede suceder).
Espero que lean esto, pero espero más que les gusten los dibujitos, y espero aún más que los hagan mejores personas de alguna manera mágica que no me figuro muy bien.

Más en Tumblr http://juan-reca.tumblr.com/
Aún más en DeviantArt http://juanreca.deviantart.com/

Y más que más en Flickr! http://www.flickr.com/photos/juan-reca/

Un abrazo,

Reca.

La flor del Irupé

La flor del Irupé, un álbum en Flickr.

Throwing a miserable sound...

Foto sacada por mí. Navidad, Carhué.

2 Flies

The flies are angry bits of life; why are they so angry? it seems they want more, it seems almost as if they are angry that they are flies; it is not my fault; I sit in the room with them and they taunt me with their agony; it is as if they were loose chunks of soul left out of somewhere; I try to read a paper but they will not let me be; one seems to go in half-circles high along the wall, throwing a miserable sound upon my head; the other one, the smaller one stays near and teases my hand, saying nothing, rising, dropping crawling near; what god puts these lost things upon me? other men suffer dictates of empire, tragic love… I suffer insects… I wave at the little one which only seems to revive his impulse to challenge: he circles swifter, nearer, even making a fly-sound, and one above catching a sense of the new whirling, he too, in excitement, speeds his flight, drops down suddenly in a cuff of noise and they join in circling my hand, strumming the base of the lampshade until some man-thing in me will take no more unholiness and I strike with the rolled-up-paper - missing! - striking, striking, they break in discord, some message lost between them, and I get the big one first, and he kicks on his back flicking his legs like an angry whore, and I come down again with my paper club and he is a smear of fly-ugliness; the little one circles high now, quiet and swift, almost invisible; he does not come near my hand again; he is tamed and inaccessible; I leave him be, he leaves me be; the paper, of course, is ruined; something has happened, something has soiled my day, sometimes it does not take man or a woman, only something alive; I sit and watch the small one; we are woven together in the air and the living; it is late for both of us. Charles Bukowski

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