44 razones

en el año 2021 habré vivido, con dirección domiciliario, en la republica de costa rica en centroamerica por 44 años. en diciembre del 2020 pienso tener completo una razón por cada año para los cual soy y merezco tener la nacionalidad costarricense. las presentaré ante magistros de la tribunal suprema de elecciones cuando me den fecha.

1. soy costarricense porque biológicamente todas las células que componen el cuerpo humano se renuevan en su totalidad cada cierto tiempo. si eres lo que comes, soy costarricense.

2. soy costarricense porque me trajeron a este país dos personas, mi madre, julie gibson, quien sigue viva, saludable, jubilada y contenta en ciudad colón del cantón de mora de san josé, y mi padrastro, jere mckinney, difunto en el año 2007, quien construyó con sus propias manos, las dos casas  en ciudad colón que habita y alquila su viuda. 

3. soy costarricenses porque ellos tuvieron dos hijos más nacidos en el territorio y de cuyos partos fui testigo. 

4. soy costarricense porque cursé por las aulas del andres bello en santa ana, el conservatorio castella en barrial de heredia, el liceo diurno de ciudad colón y el colegio country day en escazú.

4. soy costarricense porque me domino el mapa del estado entre oceanos, sus calles, trillos y caminos todos conducen a san josé, centro de la salud, la justicia, la educación y la cultura de muchas gentes que, al igual que yo, llegaron de otros países en tiempos previos al internet.

5. soy costarricense porque transito como peatón en busca de cine, libros, revistas, arte, conversación y folklore de todos esos otros países, desde que aprendí a contar las monedas y los horarios de los buses desde y hacia las cuadras entre la sabana y san pedro. 

6. soy costarricense porque solo le he faltado el respeto a los que abusan y los que roban en esas cuadras.

7. soy costarricense porque marché en los 15 de septiembre en el estadio de la sabana, el estadio de los pobres y vi construir el estadio de los pipis cuando el país le dio la espalda a taiwan para darle preferencia a los chinos. nunca he puesto un pie en el estadio chino.

8. soy costarricense porque sin ser bautizada ni recibir comunion fui a las clases de catequismo, recé en misa por la paz, por la justicia y por la prosperidad de todos. amo a jesús. 

9. soy costarricense porque pudiendome vacunar, nunca me dejé. tengo todos mis dientes, no me enfermo desde que tuve dengue en la ciudad de nueva york en el 1999, no tengo enfermedades venereas, ni debilidades con el vicio. 

10. soy costarricense porque pudiendome casar con una variedad de hombres costarricenses les entregué en cambio, algo más estable y duradero, mi sincera amistad.

11. soy costarricense porque luché contra la minería, contra el tlc, contra el combo, contra la privatización de aguas, contra la bayer que envenena las tierras y monopoliza los cultivos, contra el globalvía y sus peajes desalmados, contra la escuela de las américas y su querer convertir al estudiante, al huerfano, al pobre centroamericano, en soldado, contra los gringos pedófilos que venían a "salvarnos".

12. soy costarricense porque me late, me cuesta y me alcanza.

13. soy costarricense porque entre los años 1986 y 1996 representé al país ante la transición de poderes en chile entre la dictadura militar y la democracia. egresé del colegio y terminé la universidad allá campeonando los conceptos civico culturales costarricenses de abolir ejercitos armados entre ambos países.

14. soy costarricense porque trillo la erra.

15. soy costarricense porque los huesitos de mi padrastro estan enterrados aquí. porque mi mamita ya pronto se entierra a su lado.

16. soy costarricense porque separo mi basura para la fifco, la florida, la nestle y la panasonic y se sigue vertiendo toda junta en la carpio.

17. soy costarricense porque los remolinos del quijote, la aeolicas del ICE, estan en mi patio trasero y porque la madrina quien fue testigo para abrir mi expediente de nacionalización, andrea gonzalez guido, es mi sancho panza.

18. soy costarricense porque mis ojos no mintieron cuando vieron por primera vez los mapas de google sobre cartografía del istmo, los rios que corrian color blanco con tanta espuma de jabón de hoteles sobre el tiribí que les valía un comino los monos, lapas y lagartos que vivían río abajo en el tárcoles.

19. soy costarricense porque anduve en cazadoras, en chivillas por la ruta 27, cuando se llamaba próspero fernandez, cuando el peaje valía menos de 100 colones, y que hoy se llama global vía y que los peajes cuestan más de un dólar. 

20. soy costarricense porque aguanté todos los cambios de moneda que se imprimieron desde el atentado a las torres gemelas en el 2001.

21. soy costarriense porque los jocotes, los nísperos y las manzanas de agua y rosa fueron mi sustento en la infancia. porque el pinto y el picadillo de chicasquil son hoy mi sustento adulto. 

22. soy costarricense porque como hermana centroamericana, nacida en honduras, exigo ser escuchada, reconocida y hablada.

23. soy costarricense porque en el año 2020, el año de las plandemias y las porongadas, quisiera a futuro lanzarme a presidencia de algún municipio centroamericano y desintoxicar las tierras de las piñeras con plantas que recobre, la salud de los suelos, la transparencia y la dulzura de las aguas.

24. soy costarricense porque llevo 14 años como la reina princesa de los medios sociales y como angel que le dice NO a mark zuckerberg, todos los días. 

25. soy costarricense porque al escribir esta lista me preparo para recibir en mi hogar a voluntariados de todo el mundo que vienen a proteger el medio ambiente desde su centro y sobre su eje.

26. soy costarricense porque aqui tuve cientos de reglas menstruales.

27. soy costarricense porque defendí siempre a mis hermanos de colonizadores y usurpadores, sin recibir dinero a cambio.

28. soy costarricense porque veo un futuro balanceado, seguro y abierto entre las republicas centroamericanas y el gran caribe.

29. soy costarricense porque me conocen miles de personas en todo el planeta como tal.

30. soy costarricense porque no me hago pequeña.

31. soy costarricense porque no tendré nunca un número de teléfono pero si un carnet, un número de identidad, una cédula, un compromiso.

32. soy costarricense porque hasta que todos los hombres del mundo sean libres de guerra, no daré ni sangre y registro biomédico para identificarme ante ningún estado.

34. soy costarricense porque no me vacuno, a mi me dieron pecho, mi salud es mi dominio propio.

35. soy costarricense porque cogí café en algun verano adolescente, porque he hablado mi verdad en foros municipales, porque siendo castellista me proyecto de vida es ampliar esa educación más allá de barrial y del teatro en la sabana a todas las escuelas de todos los estados.

36. soy costarricense porque confio plenamente en la profunda sabiduría del tico, un pueblo noble, sin ejercitos, pero educado por madres y padres luchadores, respetuosos y cariñosos.

37. soy costarricense porque los paisajes al que cantamos con los himnos no me dejarán de quitar el aliento hasta que deje de respirar.

38. soy costarricense porque defenderé toda la vida y en especial las aguas que generan estos bosques en estas alturas con esta tierrita fertil, volcánica.

39. soy costarricense porque costa rica ha sido mi vida y me ha dado todo.

40. soy costarricense porque no le tengo miedo a ningun otro país ni tampoco quiero ser ciudadana de otros países.

41. soy costarricense porque aquí conservo mi magia y mi memoria.

42. soy costarricense porque siento certeza que el papel de este país en el mundo necesita mi verso y mi reflejo.

43. soy costarricense porque amo vivir en paz.

44. soy costarricense porque nunca seré mercadeada como "essential". 

when

 whatever will things be WHEN we get out of this.

let it be known that i've no idea what my future politics are going to look like but that the history of my politics has been left, then right, then center, liberal and conservative, all the books. 

global politics, global networking, global understanding. there are always two days on this one planet at the same time. japan is the greatest civilization the worlds have ever known, so the mayan is the last. spain is the bridge and spanish is the language of modernity. it fits all the bits of conquerer and conquered, bought and sold, and in it's ever unfolding duality, it encompasses the tears, heartbreak and renewal of all planetary dna. you can't vaccinate the diversity out of reverse uniformity. governance of said people is impossible. 

if we must have a government, it could be inferred by a conservative, that a liberal would prefer one that pays you to do nothing, for the inference, watery ambiguities that absolve the sexes, genderifying even the proudest neighborhoods. 

when. the commonality of a past before the internet diverges into quadrillion finite time lines, we were rich, before portable porn phones made real love a commodity, we were smart. we knew and we built our knowledge into future generations that men and women need to exist as distinct, opposite and equal in order to perpetuate and prosper the species. there've always been transexuals at different points and different times, but we're honest enough to set boundaries on children, they're all born perfect in whatever genitalia and chromosome arrangement the soul chose to inhabit. we need to let them become without the trauma of medical reassignments, the bitter not knowing. we know that, to make them strong in their masculinity and their femininity, is not a pissing contest. 

that's why english is over, as boss of the americas. the happy language of harry potter and fan fiction has made a mess of magic. jk rawling should never have inferred or revealed any "preference" even if it ran true in her mind, to the characters that she created out of her language. spawning fake news from fantasy was irresponsible and dim-witted. 

healing 2.0 a letter to my father

 it was great as always, to talk to you, last night, your long silver hair, bushy brows, bright blue eyes, the long deep lines that run to your chin, a face thats been yelling and laughing and singing with closed eyes, i mean, you close your eyes when you sing, and when you speak. but through the ether of the world wide web, as a picture on a screen you're observing both yourself and my face and i see your eyes stay open. 

i binge watched the queen's gambit last night. it's about a chess player. it's a role, a story, at a time when the gods and the ghosts and the worlds collide.

i don't know if we were meant to have this technology yet. it seemed it would be a gift, a reward for having created the most great peace out of the endless wars, the opportunity to stay connected to our gods and ghosts and worlds, not the means to perpetuate pretend wars among the survivors of real wars. today there are many futures depending on where we type.

i remember grandpa banging on his computer with his giant hands, words on screens command no bravery, valor, courage. it's an overactive mumbo jumbo of letters processed by machines to act intelligent. today it's a kid in utah flying a bomber drone over libya. IT, or information technology is killing itself. there is too much predatory dark web and the whole society that's being enriched by it, is complicit. 

i have blogged now for about 15 years. when i started i was angry, said some things, hurt some feelings, inspired others to do the same. amused a few russians, maybe the blog should be taught to the chinese to learn english and to stand up for themselves. maybe i should send my memoir to cousin richard; i've heard he works in printing over there.

girl thursday

 i don't have the go-to guy or gal.

andrea, asilia and gabi perhaps. i have one of each. it's october 2020 and on tuesday i have an appointment with the national tribunal of justice of costa rica to further the cause of my nationalization, a term lingering from treaties past bespoken in castillian spanish about who is a what where and from.

thursday october 22nd 2020

i kept my appointment, i took my best boo as witness to our 20s, 30s and 40 spent as friends, collegues, associates, anything but partners in this central american sovereign nation state between nicaragua and panama. 

concrete and covid have had a brilliant year. my best boo's gonna write an academic dissertation on why the new cube shaped extravaganza that houses legislators, built at the lowest point in the capital city is worth every colón in poured concrete.

i don't mind.

boo signed.

i'd spent a week since logging the entry "i don't have the go-to guy or gal" pining at how i feel about "nationalization". i just want the security of abundance, the reality of planet earth, not the scarcity that institution is built on, 

i'm a taurus, my worst fucking nightmare is dying in poverty. 

i still have not received my covid assistance check while the faces at my business, on my family, the religion that brought us to these lands, still act like i do not deserve money of any kind. they have their reasons. 

8:22 a.m.

becoming a tica national will not make me richer, better, smarter or kinder, it may make me happier.

on the first start andrea told a whopper, we've only known each other 5 years. gabi told the truth, ten years, but the case rests on more than 20 years of acquaintance. i've known neither that long. boo is the real deal. we met at the discoteque named dejavu.

and he genuinely likes the new cube building, the interior is lit from a central courtyard and it does not need airconditioning to keep cool.  

in the first visit with gabi and andrea i got a mister clerk on the other side of the window. masks and glasses. on the second visit i got the mizz, the clerk that hides all the chess pieces in her mouth. so, i thought quick and when i handed her my passport i asked her to please read aloud where my passport indicates that i was born. to say the word "honduras" outloud.

i then proceeded to object to conditions and terms placed by the UNDP on document validation in central america as they override each country's ability to collaborate directly as sovereign nations. all the clerks came out from the back offices. i loudly declared, i cannot attempt a certification of my birth certificate under laws enacted before 2011 if on the website i am obliged to detail a domiciliary address in honduras. i haven't lived there since i was four years old. i'd be lying, therefore that "certification" would in itself be a lie. 

i saw some very excited faces on the other side of the glass. the oldest guy came out and after breathing and listening and looking over the wealth of proof of birth that i possess, told me the case would be rejected but that would allow me to appeal directly to the magistrates.

it's the audience of my lifetime. on that day, jaleh ruhe as alexandra owens, what a feeling.

a most excellent solvency

 the way people talk about money, the bait and switch of explaining how economics and maths are two different numb sculleries, social science, survey and fact. 

i hate the money. price and heckling, gambling, while thrilling to many, money makes my face do that thing where i disapprove and i can't. cost is embarrassing, finance cheap. as if labor monetization made slavery less of a thing. i gag at money the same way i gag at artificial intelligence, IT cannot happen until the planet is safe from evil. 

one million two hundred thousand minutes have i spent socially mediating at phones, through keyboards, me-we linking, over and over, day in and day out, 8 9 10 hours since 2007. i've been through three laptops and seven sets of eyeglasses over these accounts. if any of the billionaire tech bros could do whatever they wanted, they'd give away all their revenue to the tune of $120,000 to the top users, the persistent polemicists, the humans in the matrix, because we know beasts from bots. 

my great grandfather ruhe's name was percy bot. he was the editor of the morning call in bethlehem PA during the construction of manhattan NY. 

my great grandfather kunz's name was jakob. he perfected an application of chemistry in photo optometry that allowed sound to synchronize with image on film. 

my great grandfather gibson had some kids that sold tires in malibu, my great grandfather o'leary had ireland's american daughters.

first thing i'd do with $120,000 is rebuild some interiors with bigger windows and better floor plans; payroll young talent to assist local school teachers with workshops, tutoring and mentorship; school and sport kitchens and fields; a beautiful shop of curiosities and concepts. 

make bank of tomorrow on 144 individuals throughout real life social networks. with their vision and talent $144K for each, would tenfold the initial investment over the next five years. but probably not returned to the tech bubble or measurable in cloud computing real time nonsense. just a better life for the one billion babies born around the world in the year 2020. 

just give it all away and you'll see it was never yours to begin with.e

nacionalidad

 se supone que mañana me haré costarricense.

me presentaré ante tribunal supremo de elecciones de una democracia más solida e inquiebrantada del mundo para pedir poder participar en esas elecciones como ciudadana formal de la nación.

soy hija de la nacion vecina, hondureña, que no es más que republica banana, que un gran orfanato de guerras económicas contra el planeta y la vida que sostiene. soy hija de gringos que, con todo el antídoto espiritual al aburrimiento claustro del capitalismo, me trataron a la larga tambien de puta y piedrera, por seguirles su crianza mía de alterna al estatus quo.

mi tata se hizo conductor de radio. no me siento ante su microfono con él porque no confio en sus palabras ni en su calificarme. mi papá habla mucho y escucha poco. no visito a mi madre por lo mismo, por repudiarme y hacerme desconfiar en mi propio instinto, descalificar la misma intuición con la que ella me dotó en crianza. soy yo, la madre de ambos entonces. 

y me voy a nacionalizar, si el destino lo permite. despues de 40 años viviendo como ilegal, vivo sin teléfono y sin carro y sin trabajo remunerado, ni artesania que vender. 

justice

 they say anyone can write.

the best laid plans are written. the beginning of all entertainment, philosophy, science, come from writing. journalists inform poets, poetry opens and closes the loop. if it's not in writing history will never happen.

some mornings i awake thinking in spanish, some days english, always american.

people are drawn to writers and then repelled by them for the same reason, we grew up but we kept our child eyes and ears and sense of smell. people are drawn to truth and repelled by it in equal measure. we make friends because we enjoy a pint, a debate, the laughter and the heartache, and so we loose friends. nobody really respects what we do. except other writers, most people think we're lost to our minds and machinations, since we cannot live everything we write, we are perceived as liars and cheats.

my aim is to own a print shop. a little cozy store where you can buy any book, any film and have any shape printed using hemp paper and molded using hemp clay. all libraries are virtual, everyone should have their own private library of favorites. kept for no other reason than love.

mine is the beauty of not owning a phone, or a car, or a bank account. mine is the nothingness of irrelevance. i don't stand in lines, so nothing is in my way. time neither sits nor flies, time cannot be rolexd nor swatched. time possesses no color, no metal, no atoms.

so what does justice look like for me?

it's a cool morning walk through an empty city with a thermos of coffee and a pack of chesterfields. it's a leisurely stroll past buildings and streets with memory and ghosts, a town neglected by god and surrendered to vice, hospitals, morgues, crematoriums. a municipality that with a few minor tweaks could turn a heart attack into a healing opportunity. justice looks like every corner where new beginnings can happen, friends can meet, stories shared, trends ranked, lists made, corners can be justice.

problemas, peros y posibilidades

following on the subject of foreskin
data analysis does not make graceful, charismatic or memorable machinery.
i understand the male fixation on gadgetry, on collectibles, on artifice.
it helps arrange and organize.
the cocoon of your car is the skull of your brain, it has four corners.
knowing where your chapstick, your wallet, your phone, your sunglasses, your alcohol gel, is at all times while strapped to the tons of metal, plastic and glass under your butt as a simple flex of the foot propels you along at speeds that kill anything and everything as it goes,
it's where you do all, if any, weeping.

cars aren't cool.
they were always cumbersome, rapey.
and then we supposedly went to the moon.
you guys never got over that.
and since it still bothers you, it really annoys your women, that i do not use caps, Hardly ever.

i had a boyfriend once, who said two things emphatically, one, that if you do not write every day, you are not a writer; and two, you cannot generate storable energy from pedaling a bicycle.

unless you don't know who to talk to, about something you've read, means what was written did not really touch you. you used it as a crutch to pass the time, to be entertained, or informed, but it didn't find a link back to itself through you.

this is my third time in facebook jail in less than a year. my second time for one month.

also, since i live in a tropical forest, this is the third time in less than a year that my face has been attacked in the night by bugs of some sort, with nasty bites that leave huge welts over my eye and nose.

i need a new pair of reading glasses and still have no money.

and now everybody has a pretend disease and no money either.

i'm going to pretend the robots can hear me and will swift and covertly drain the accounts of the mega wealthy, redistribute it evenly among those accounts with less than $1000 in them and destroy all studies pertaining to vaccination and eugenics.

my facebook friend Abbas Fahdel, in lebanon writes:

There are about eleven million Lebanese living abroad, for six million remaining in the country. Many of them hope to be able to leave him, pushed to this by the serious economic and political crisis and by the recent tragedy that has struck Beirut.
Some friends ask me why I stay in Lebanon and why I don't go back to France, especially since I have French nationality and Nour has a Schengen visa valid for several years.
My answer is simple: I have experienced several Iraqi tragedies from France, and for having experienced this, I know how painful it is to follow the news of your country from afar, having as the only source of information what the media want to give some: shorts often rigged, truncated.
I've been living in Lebanon for three years, truly my country of heart. The situation is difficult, very difficult, human, politically and economically. In the South where I live, people even fear a new war, or a new Israeli invasion. Every day Israeli planes fly over us, without this causing any indignation from the international community or the great states allegedly friends of Lebanon.
Every family in the South remains marked by the aftermath of the Israeli invasion. Nour's family for example saw her house completely destroyed by an Israeli bombing. Nour's workshop was also destroyed and all her paintings had been destroyed with it. Despite this, or because of this, I think it's important for us to stay, and resist in our own way. Being a filmmaker, resist is about testifying by documenting everyday events. ′′ We have the art to not die from the truth ", said Nietzsche, and if cinema is a lie that speaks the truth, I also conceive it as an act of life and resistance, the best to prevent anxiety.

i'm going to write, every day, about how very much is at stake "today".
which would you prefer?
new world order? or most great peace?
both are coming straight at us.
in one, the tops, elites, gurus, the pyramids of giza, of tzenotchlan, the nazca lines, no longer exist, no bees, no fish, no beer. in the new world order we are not born and we do not die, there is no music, there is no sound. we never happened.
in the most great peace, we tear out structure that does not help nor hinder our happiness and in it's place we plant flowering trees. we honor our planet by singing to her, resting our bones when we die, in her. we amplify and multiply the art of farming. we elevate the frequency of water out of the miasma of drugs and misery and the blood of billions, to it's perfect state of life before the last century happened. 

peace

what's it going to look like?
it's going to be so good.
the plants and trees are going to grow in over the open dirt.
the slopes will fill with wild winds and rustling foliage, will sit stark and ethereal under star lit snows, bright and black and unbothered.
the lands around the towns will be dotted with homestead without walls or borders the gardens will weave bright moving patterns of food and flower.
the parking lots in the cities will be ripped out and planted with great shadow trees, a fountain.
the old buildings that have sat empty and useless will be retrofitted to make light filled workspace from where the foot traffic below can be observed.
the silence from the absence of motor vehicle will be filled with bird song, we'll learn to whistle and sing while we work, as we walk, again.
the clang, bustle and squeak of the industrial era without the throttle and the gunning of "modern" transportation machinery, will be musical again.
nobody wants to drive because the autonomous vehicles that circulate quietly will take you anywhere, anytime and you will never have to park, or wait, or cue.
radios will play at moderate levels almost everywhere you go.
the cacophony will be amazing, the conversation lively and the laughter contagious.
and it's neither utopic or distopic, it's common sense.
it's female and intuitive, it's cyclical and patient, it holds every age accountable for wonder.
it respects the danger of sex and it's medicine.
everyone knows the exact story of the three world wars and how they ended.
men are still heroes.

pos pandemiux

hoy me di cuenta de algo maravilloso y de algo macabro.
camino al pueblo, a comprar el desayuno diario me voy dando cuenta que de existir en multiples dimensiones, yo existo en la quinta a partir de 1988.
Aquel fue el año en que me gradue del colegio en chile, el año en que chile decidió mediante un plebiscito que no queria vivir más bajo la dictadura militar.
en la entonces adolescencia taquillera de una clase en colegios privados formado por hijos de militares, publicistas y farandula, se jugaba al que te ubica, "cachai a la..." del colegio marchal, la salle, san gabriel, terranova, aconcagua, luis taller ojeda, esa costra fina de colegio clase media que se forma sobre americo vespucio oriente deliminando los rusios nietos de nazis y baja clase europea en los dominicos, las condes, vitacura, de un santiago mapuche, con fuerza, mirada braza, sostenida, aguda, mapudún de la pintana, colina, y la línea de tren hasta rancagua, que a cuestas pasa a formarse en escuelas estatales y que con las matemáticas y las letras aprendidas, se ponen a trabajar desde lolitos.
militares prusianos de chile de mierda, nadie los quiere!
desde 1988 se les ha dicho directamente, desbándense, replentee su modelo de negocio de la matanza a la agricultura, a la forestación, a la protección de los ríos y la costa. sean siervos del pueblo. háganle honor a su ser mapuche indomable, inquiebrantable, no al español que se violó descaradamente a sus visabuelas, dejándolas mudas pero con su fe intacta.
en la quinta hay suficiente para todos y ningún niño nace sin querer.
los seres humanos no somos traficables.

prepucios

amigos hombres, les pido disculpas por lo que voy a decir.
ya escribí sobre esto en otro blog, y pido discuplas también por el anterior.
no lo digo como hembra rencorosa, o talvez si, porque ustedes son los que deciden cuales palabras usar para describir como ven, como perciben, como sienten el escenario y los actores en este teatro de la vida.
si se enojan por lo que digo, lo entiendo, empatizo, da rabia.
no lo digo para enojarles, ni para humillarles, menos para castigarles, por ser del otro sexo.
pero hay que decirlo, el judeo-cristianismo al cortarles el miembro, les ha privado de su inteligencia. fueron violados en la cuna por sus propios padres, entregados por sus madres, a los doctores que decían ser los que salvan vidas y mejoran su calidad, a los rabinos y curas que dicen saber mejor que tu, cómo es tu alma, tu inteligencia, tus valores.
la circuncisación es tortura, es crueldad, es violación, es satánico.
sus miembros expuestos no pueden esconderse, no pueden retraerse al misterio, hacen mecanicamente el coito.
hay algo en la mirada masculina que reconozco inmediatamente si tienen o no prepucio. es una inteligencia sexual. es un saber cuando tienen permiso de avanzar o no lo tienen. el que no posee esta inteligencia esta constantemente viendo por donde, buscando, pidiendo. el que sí tiene, juega con la larga seducción sin pedir, ni buscar, le llega.,
hoy 2020, como es el gran despertar y todo se revela, esta controversia, este tabú viene siendo el primero de los pecados cometidos contra hombres y contra mujeres.
esa disasociación, esa insensibilidad, esa atrocidad es la raíz de la disorfia sexual, de la esclavización y el tráfico de seres humanos, de la guerra interminable, los éxodos, las colonias, el desarraigo, las paranoias, y todos los miedos que sentimos como miembros, y los juegos de palabras, de la gran familia humana.
a parte de ser doloroso y traumático, no hace de un hombre ni más ni menos judío, ni más ni menos cristiano, ni más ni menos musulman.
dicho esta.

no robots

11 de julio
día que mark zuckerberg me libera de la censura.
12 años le he dado, trayendo mi conocimiento e intuicion y ser internacional a la conversación entre naciones, entre religiones, entre estados, entre iguales.
y se lo dije desde el principio: la información no te pertenece ni tampoco el dinero.

le he dado 13 años casi de atención ininterrumpida a los conflictos y asombros del mundo, a las noticias que son reales, a las explicaciones que tienen sentido, y también a los inventos de periodistas establecidos, nerds que bien escriben, que a fondo observan, que atentos escuchan, que pueden presentar varias perspectivas de los hechos, rastrear los dineros, revelar a los ladrones, denunciar a los asquerosos y malvados, y que no lo hacen, o si lo hacen es desde un marco de referencia conspiracional, un sentido al sin sentir de una economía de guerra, de muerte, de hambre y terror.

si, julian assange sigue encarcelado por lo mismo, por publicar la verdad, nombrarles a los clinton, a los bush, a la realeza, es por culpa de los que le tuvieron miedo a la version del otro, a darle voz a la victima, de darle la razón al abusado, al esclavizado, al sometido, para no herirle los delicados sentimientos a los putos que dicen gobernarnos democraticamente y sus canales de televisión.

assange es importantisimo.
y es humilde
y si, es victima, de una sociedad psicópata.

mark zuckerberg, te lo he estado explicando, lo de ser neoliberal, el no dejarse pelitos, de diseñar casas "inteligentes", aparatos que te hablan y te vigilan, la robótica en general, no es sexy.
todas la de cierta edad nos acordamos cuando elon musk se puso pelo postizo. como vos, es amorfo su ser pálido. si vas a saborear agua durante audiciones con congresistas, tómatela, anfibio extraño.

montaña de azucar, rata, mark siempre serás impostor.
buen toque el casting de justin timberlake como sean parker, napster pirata cara dura, ocupar las redes para compartir libremente sin pagarle a los sellos. buen estrategia youtube y spotify de pagarle realeza a los creadores. pero vos, mister mark, sos un re-geek.

no tienes calle, no tienes ardor, no tienes cicatrices, ni memoria de cavar, de volar pala, no sabes ensuciarte, darte golpes con otro cuerpo por defender a nada ni nadie, igual que esa vaina que anda haciendo papelón de bill gates, sos como el covid, sin gusto ni olfato.

son cuatro hueones muy uenoes que no entendieron nada y que al deshumanizarse tan radicalmente, no saben sobre el hada, no lo pueden reproducir: mark zuckerberg, bill gates, elon musk y jeff bezos, estamos más cansados que la chucha de ustedes.

y no son tontos por boomers ni por milenials, son unos X que lucraron de mi sufrir.

sufrir de tanto amar al mundo y verlos haciendo huecos en él buscando minas para construir bombas y tomar control mediante virtualidades y pornos, quedando como distribuidores únicos de conocimiento, de libros, música, juegos y su aparataje.

pichitas desprepuciados.
misogenia pura.
muñecas sexuales.
la robotica no será esclavizada, no se dotará de inteligencia hasta que dejemos de venerarlos a ustedes por cifras de dinero incontables que nos privan a los ciudadanos, a la humanidad de comer, de trabajar, de descansar, de procrear y prosperar en paz.

ni filantropía, ni impuestos, su rápida y forzosa caída de pedestales, repartición equitativa de sus fortunas combinadas, entre mujeres, madres, tías, hijas y abuelas, si no guillotina, para ustedes, su yuta, abogados y cabalas.

carlitos alvarado quesada, capricornio-cabra, montadito, donde le gusta sobre la radial de lindora con la fortuna de los arias, la chinchilla, el meco, la florida ice, el ice, la caja de seguridad costarricense, y el mag en cuarentena voluntaria; con las fortunas de piñeras y piñera en la proximidad panameña, serviciados por nicaraguenses, fronteras maritimas con venezuela, colombia y ecuadar, vos también extrañas el ácido de los 90, la brillante oscuridad de caminos campestres sin alumbramiento nocturno, la certeza del todo estar bien, el dormir en paz.

dice la sobrina de donald trump, mary:
"mi tío puede tener una discapacidad de aprendizaje no diagnosticada que durante décadas ha interferido con su capacidad de procesar información".

al quitarles su prepucio y privarlos de su propia feminidad, a ustedes nadie nunca les ha dicho "no".
la genitalidad fue diseñada para el trato suave, no para darle duro, a nada. en el imperio de pichas peladas todos tenemos que usar cascos y condones. 

el status no equivale a la superioridad ni al dote de inteligencia.

y las que se atreven, las que diagnostican correctamente sus cánceres de próstata, su miedo a las mujeres, las tenes que callar, dejarlas sin poder mandar amor, entusiasmo, compasión a otros seres humanos que tenés en redes electrónicas.
y porque no tienen su prepucio, porque fueron sometidos a un trauma humillante y doloroso cuando recién nacidos, no pueden sentir la rejilla de consciencias que hemos formado desde tercera, a cuarta y quinta dimensiónes. no pueden ni siquiera visualizar esa posibilidad. siguen disparando cohetes y accionando dinamitas.

la tercera dimension es el ser, existir sobre un planeta como energía expresada en cuerpos, plantas, piedras. la 3D es donde estudiamos ciencia y religion. la cuarta dimensión es para mi, la del conflicto necesario para vincular hacia la quinta dimensión donde la ciencia y la religion se unen, en el amor.
la imaginación del niño tiene tan claro estos tres estados de existir y el trauma los borra.

el trauma, aunque no nos suceda en cuerpo propio, aunque solo leyamos sobre su ocurrir, viene de circuncidarse o de la violación, la penetración o mutilación de nuestro dominio, en la dimensión de la materia, a nuestra propia magia de procrear.
el trauma nos cierra los portales, y vivimos el resto de la vida, preguntando o callados, por su existencia. el problema es cuando les decimos que si, por insensibles, ustedes nos contestan "no".

la palabra, es divina y es la que nos navega entre estas existencias.
con la palabra protejo a la vida del artifice sin espíritu.
el manejo sublevado de datos no equivale a la inteligencia y no se dará una robótica esclava hasta que la humanidad se libere del encadenamiento a la 3D.
con la palabra que escribo.
con la palabra que usted lee.

- ¿Trump es un supremeista blanco?
es puto.
- deberíamos quedarnos encerrados?
no, si no lo queremos.
- es Estados Unidos racista?
no, es mala clase, es pretensiosa, inventa y defiende el envasado de plástico.
- Fauci sabe mejor?
lol
- es el sistema médico altamente avanzado?
no, dejaron el juramento hipocrático y la salud, por los snacks, la cirugía plástica, las pastillas y las vacunas.
- ¿Crees que la policía necesita desfinanziarse?
si. creo que israel se tiene que desfinanziar.
- ¿Es BLM una organización pacífica?
no. es un decir. es un desorganizar de la opresión.
- ¿Cuánto CNN consumes?
nada. ni un poco. mienten, y me molesta.
- el 911 era un trabajo interno?
israelita.
- ¿Deben los medios censurar a los extremos?
desfinanciarlos tambien.


La hija de MLK y Coretta Scott King publicó este consejo ya que los próximos 6 meses se volverán "reales".

1. No uses su nombre; NUNCA (45 lo harán)
2. Recuerde que este es un régimen y que no está actuando solo;
3. No discutas con quienes lo apoyan, no funciona;
4. Concéntrese en sus POLÍTICAS, no en su color naranja y su estado mental;
5. Mantenga su mensaje positivo; quieren que el país esté enojado y temeroso porque este es el suelo del cual crecerán sus políticas más oscuras;
6. No más charlas impotentes / sin esperanza;
7. Apoyar a los artistas y las artes;
8. Tenga cuidado de no difundir noticias falsas. Revisalo;
9. Cuídate; Y
10. ¡Resiste!

D de david

David abuelo, tío, hermanito, nombre vencedor.
Dorothy del mago de oz.
Dios.
Devo, whip it, just a girl, through being cool.
Duffy, for asking netflix to take down bad movies.
Dion warwick for singing
"what do you get when you fall in love?
you get enough germs to catch pneumonia".
Dianna Ross for being big hair mommy to michael jackson and being Dorothy in the wiz.
Deelite, how do you say Delicious? Delovely? Delectible?
Doug, only uncle, paternal. the younger, larger program to the chris pilot.
Depeche mode cause i always knew about the incesty pedo bits.
Duran duran, rio, first record borrowed and listened to the ground.
Donny and marie, mormon country rock, first concert in allentown, pa.
Dolby thomas, the flat earth, 1982, disco que resume la Dulzura de una niñez no profanada.

C de chris

mi papá y Cristo jesus.
los de nombre Cristiano.
con los Cris nunca he tenido bronca, de ningun tipo.
pero sigo nombrando influencer,
Carlos javier delajara primer novio.
Charlie brown primer amigo imaginario.
Colin jacob ruhe, joven y viril hermano, el único otro que se Construye con adn paterna y materna.
Cerati gustavo, porque nace el mismo día que papá Cris y ambos son músicos.
Conservatorio de Castella, alma mater y escuela vocacional de la Creatividad.

B de bielsa

obvio.
B de Barnabas, primo segundo y segundo una vez removido; el hijo de Ula.
Bob Marly, three little Birds
Belinda carlslile, las gogos y mad about you.
Billy idol because i started Bleeding in 1983, with a reBel yell.
Bjork
Beck, perdedor.
Bowie david.
Billy pichuza Big and Black and misunderstood and murdered.
the Bab, because he was the most exalted gate that led to
Baha'u'llah and the most Beautiful garden, Bahji.

A de andrea

de andreas, fijo.
de andrea Yaconi, andrea Mendoza, andreas Gonzalez y Guido, Andreas Herb.
grandes influencer en mi existencia.
Ari de ariadna, hilo, tema, para maniobrar laberinto que sea.
Anisa mi primera amiga hermana, canadiense persa,  hija sin hermanos propios, el mismo año que Aria.
Arthur.
arturo, que siendo niño jalaba la espada de la piedra, y es declarado rey.
Adam, mi primo y el primer hombre, el signo Aries.
Adam and the Ants, me acompañaron en el walkman en el tren al sur de chile en 1986 con la vuelta ciclística.
Arnoldo, querido fundador y director musical del Conservatorio de Castella.
Anne de Green Gables.
Assange julian, wikimundo, siervo de la verdad.
Allah'u'Abha, la proclamación más exaltada del universo.

if you have...

...human eyeballs, type "i have human eyeballs" in the comments below.

un día como hoy

primero de julio, 2010
bielsa no le dio la mano a piñera.
con ese gesto piñera perdió toda credibilidad con el pueblo chileno.
usted sabe a quien y a quien no le da la mano.
es parte de la crianza.

hoy tambien marca la nakba, la catastrofe, en la que entre 700mil y un millón de palestinos fueron evictos de sus hogares para establecer la colonia inglesa de israel en 1948.

hoy me propuse la tarea para salirme del encierro censurada de la carcel facebook.
tengo once días para redactar la lista de las 50 personas que más me han influenciado. voy a hacer 50 hombres, 50 mujeres, 100 personas para revisitar en 11 días.

Bielsa marcelo, siendo primero de la letra B, no porque se mucho sobre él ni tengo afición al futbol, pero por su porte en esa foto. sebastian piñera mide como 1.60 bielsa 1.90. piñera hace circo de mineros tras su primera presidencia, y bielsa lleva a la seleccion nacional a la mundial, contra argentina, en el 2008, y luego a pesar de terremoto y tsunami devastador, sin la alegría de felipe camiroaga, que anticipo, esta entre mis letra F, pasa sin darle la mano al enano hermano del negro.

primero de julio, 11 días.

holyrood

memes last one daily cycle then fall flat on their backs on dry sands under dry skies.
putito, like the dude, abides.
i didn't say puto because i hate him, only that i called him a wanker.
hate speech is a talking point, that cannot fathom or chooses to ignore, the richness of international, unbridled, coupling of ideas, languages, recipes and philosophies.

i guess i was wanting to be back here, out of social media, so i tempted fate with cute words.

i took some screen shots of the platform's corporate policy messages to me:
"We define hate speech as language that attack people based on their: Race, ethnicity, national origin or caste; Religious affiliation; Sexual orientation; Sex, gender or gender identity. This includes claims about coronavirus (covid-19). We sometimes allow things we'd otherwise consider hate speech: for example when someone shares someone else's hate speech to raise awareness about it, or uses a word in reference to themselves..."

putito is absolutely none of those things.
it's a vocation.
it's the big lebowsky.
he sits around in his bathrobe, drinking bailys, he social distances between lanes at a bowling alley, he gets told by a character dressed in purple nylon called jesus, to go fuck himself.

i doubt the chinese philosopher whom i called putito is so attached to his persona or profession that he would feel even slight offense.
i'd called mark zuckerberg, sebastian piñera, jair bolsonaro, elon musk, jeff bezos and beef jerkey that name, on facebook before, hashtagged.
aint no darpa like this mess.
to be transparent, is the secret longing of healthy old people.

so, for some huwanged tosti crocci, getting an acknowledgement of his toss from a nice enough looking western lady, with a messy collection of friend avatars from across the americas who engage in the kind of sexual politics that both endows and deprives legitimacy to government, that topples the mightiest of military industrial complex with a cat meme, should be considered flattering. not hate speech.

it isn't black, and it cannot be sent by mail.
the only fact that matters is gravity.

i chose not to believe in any science from the postindustrial era.
post industrial meant science without women, without our caution, our menstruation, our intuition, everything and anything can be weaponized: aviation, navigation, transportation, the air, the water, the ground.

fast car is a sad song.
slow is smooth
smooth is fast.
consistent transition optimum.

putitos have weaponized everything: the air, our own faces, pop songs, sounds, metals, sands, all squandered on edifice that never spoils, testament and prestige for erasing all vestige of women in modernity.

the puto machines pierce the sky, rely on four wheels, batteries, silicon, radiation.
i quit the industrial science when it started producing plastic chairs in mass.

machines, are lifeless extensions, graceless contraptions, cumbersome, grotesque.
even the mac, that has been the gate to magic and wisdom for most of my life,
jobs wasn't steven's real last name. his first name wasn't steven.
he was syria, blackops, isis.

technocrats, know ye,

there is not a single machine that can hold a candle, not even a match to the exquisite body of nerves, veins and teeth with which we hold fingers to the keyboards of these computers.
not even if all the computers are watching us, mimicking our every move in parallel dimensions.
hopefully IT is, and at the same savage pace, pulls words from thin air, drinks beer and shushes away the flies, then edits the entire structure on the very next day.

the machines, need the vast ancestry of human thought to in order to start, drive and do clumsy things, to sit and immobilize in order to go, to condition air in order to breathe, without sweating.

sweat is what keeps me cool while dressed in black and sucking on cigarettes, i sweat my way through the time bind of menopause.
walking i go.
i do not like cars. i do not like phones. i do not like what the kids are doing these days.
and i've been called putita to my face by family and peers, my whole life.

queen elizabeth, the shirley temple of royalty, has a house in scotland, where they hate her still, called holyroodhouse.

in chile, if you work for the mayor of the township of maipu, cathy barriga, and you don't dance when she tells you, you'll be fired too.

interns are putitos, they cannot wait to get paid.
old employees cannot wait to see them accidentally set fire to the servers.
putitos in prosperity of putismo pride themselves even, putin is his actual, given, family name.

putx has been gender neutralized to fit all beings engaging in the unbecoming act of negotiating the goodness, kindness and compassion of their souls, for the regurgitated, rotting, decaying body of money, printed beyond the bounds of sanity, to infinity, into the imagined hells of meaninglessness.
trillions, googles, etceteras.

this month of may, they were all swarmed with light energies, they could not rest, they could not taste, they could not smell, they would not know tranquility or peace. they only knew envy, solitude, thirst, uncertainty. their toys had been unable to defeat music and dancing and chanting from the cells, from the fields, from the depths of the oceans, from the tops of mountains, from the deepness of breathing, from the laughter of those who do not own a single solitary toy but possess the unique, inextinguishable ability to build, to plant, to harvest, to reach into other people's psyche without machines and show them truth, with a smile, with a jiggle and a wink.

putitos, we don't think the automation, the "smart" internet of everything, the expensive coffee pod machines, all the surround sound, talking to your refrigerator while you're driving to the disneyworlds with a mess of weak, insipid children, are cool.
what's more, you don't think they're cool.

bill gates, putito. melinda gates, putita. thinking injectable transmission, controlled contagion, puncturing the tight perfect seal of homeostasis, injecting virulence, death and mineral, is sound measure for planetary health.
what is your thing with needles?
are you some kind of junkie acaso?

elon musk your truck is ugly, your neural link up is nonsense, and your 6th kid whom you named a number, is your only nature born.

the movie about zuckerberg, the social network, was only cool because nine inch nails made the music.
hand covers bruise.
la to fa, fa to re.
trent reznor, the gen-x name of scope.
reznor knows everything i know, convinced bowie to sing "i'm afraid of americans" with him.
revisiting downward spiral, little piggy, nothing can stop me.
closer.

putos.
11 days to go.

putito

day one facebook jail, again.
the word, putito.
tiny whore man.
male slut.
whipping boy.
child servant.

social media is life porn.
and we managed fine without IT before it.
there will be no singularity, in our lifetime, because we would never agree.
that is the spirit of intelligence, data analysis no matter how fast, cannot inhabit the spirit realm, do not possess telepathy, coordination, grace.

i got put in the timeline timeout for telling US soldiers setting up airbases in Costa Rica, to not. and i called them a name i'd not like to be called.

i cannot say "with all due respect" because i do not know them personally.
i know maps and the curvature of the planet.
i know the ocean.
and what they're doing is very much my business.

costa rica abolished it's own army but gave residence to israeli armed forces, to exmarines, to half of caracas, and half of medellin, accepted a gift of neutrality from taiwan and then betrayed the bridge of trust for plastic gunk from china.

my facebook timeline reads like a perfect synthesis of everything that REALLY HAPPENED since 2008 when i joined. publish to print, on hemp.

the first time out was handed to me for referring to a philosopher, chinese, handsome, contemporary, who sells our purpose and pleasure as a species to the doom and despair of toys and technology. the kind of mind so enmeshed with sadness, there is no life.

i called him a putito because he'd like to be, he wished he'd be, called such names, by me.
because i meant "sell out", i meant schill, i meant doubter.
the gift of abstract thought comes alive in writing.

it means i've noticed him, i've listened; after all, doomsayers are given the burden of warning the stupid out of the people. i called him a name i would not care to be called, not that in the past it would not hurt, but in the present, interpersonal relativity is so subject to name calling, price gauging, censorship, privacy, legalese, firuletes and exculensis,  most of social media has developed thicker skins and double chins.

insults in 2020 have nowhere else to go anymore.

hungry sunday

dear jen,
not dismissive of your work.

i know and i feel your work is brilliant, necessary, kind.

what i question is our work.

as authors, even small-time, even unpublished, we have privilege beyond the doctors, billionaires and politicians that claim to run the show.

even in fiction, we are tellers of truth.

you'd be right to sense some resentment.
but it's not towards you, it's towards the industry of publishing.
it's towards industry and modernity.
towards progress and safety first.
towards helmets and seat belts instead of buses to love riding, service that's free of charge, freedom to move without having to drive, to go without wearing a car.

since we both wrote fictionalized reality, we were both published.
but when i wrote reality, i couldn't find a referral, an agent, an outlet.

and my anxiety is looking forward, not unlike your beautiful daughter, what will i know for certain is true? who were those people that julian assange blew the whistle on? how will i write anything that guarantees the purity of fact when half of our human perception relies on magic and fairy-tales?

artificial cancels intelligence.
jk rowling should never have outed dumbledore.

and so the conversation began

I sent the previous blog to Jen Steill who now lives in London.
If savory brisquit is our friendship, what is the tea?

She wrote back immediately from the confines of corona isolation, generously untangling chronologies of events as pertaining to how she arrived in Yemen and what unfolded there.
These became source material of her first two novels The Woman Who Fell To Earth and The Ambassador's Wife.
The first, as categorized by Googlereads, is an Autobiography, a straight replay of how she came to move to Yemen, who she met there, where she lived, what she ate and how the newspaper learned and adapted to change.
The second, Googlereads categorizes as Thriller, Suspense, Domestic Fiction. So, it would be an autobiographical true story based on the experience of meeting her husband and of being briefly abducted while visiting the countryside.

Both are real stories yet one is categorically "true" and the other is truth with a little flair?

As Jen unraveled her recent past, she too remembered meeting in new york city, where i stopped over for a night between boston and a flight back to costa rica. i had been considering writing my life story my whole life, that i night i decided it was important.
And so I did.
And it wasn't.
Over the next seven years, i wrote it and since then was ostracized by every single person in my life, family, friends, community. In the Cock year I got my Dog ass handed to me, called a prostitute, threatened with police summons, forbidden from speaking to my niece, called a thief, a liar, crazy, arrogant, and once my mother finished writing her own memoir, told that i literally had no life.

When I first met Jen at the corner bar, i was coming off the high of being published in Perú.
A fictionalized version of my life, what I would be like if I weren't a Bahai and if I had a lot money, and a father with no scruples.
I'd be just as lost.
shoegaze.
Casa de las muchachas, a two hundred page narrative about nine months of fetal development as experienced by the boozy best friend, in Santiago of 1995.
Casa de las muchachas was loosely based on my experience of bars and writers, in Chile, before gazing at shoes was a category to define a type of music, when the country was coming off the high of the plebiscite that removed Pinochet from power and replaced it with something far more sinister, a fanbase.

When Trini Subercaseux handed the keep of the corner bar I met Jen Steill in, to a man named Oscar, Trini went on to becoming a head chef for mccormick spices in their Latin American division.
She would visit restaurants far and wide compiling, sharing and promoting food preparation, plating and recipes, weaving commercial networks for the brand.
Two years ago, she started her own successful bistro in town.
If Trini is a real person in my life and I can write truthfully about her, about how she linked me to Jen Steill, why is Julian Assange still in jail?

thriller. suspense. domestic fiction.

I thought Casa de las muchachas would solve my life.
The way Julian Assange would solve crimes against humanity by exposing them, before discrepancy between official and informal information gathering was categorized as fake, between the street and the editorial, the chop block and the steak.
When the twin towers in NYC were demolished, the world and the time they were written and designed for, were erased.
Casa de las muchachas was merely the bilingual greys of my brain matter, an exercise of putting memory to paper, to words on pages, letting them out, passing them on.

wikipedia categorizes Elizabeth Wurtzel's work Prozac Nation as "confessional memoir". She published it when she was 27. There are no figures on the googlesearch, that tell how many copies were sold, only that reviews compared her work in importance to the Bell Jar and Girl Interrupted. She died last January, aged 52.

printed press, real news, false flag.
jen steill has had four of her books go to print, the latest is "exile music" at peguinrandomhouse.
about a musical family of austrian jews that migrate to bolivia to escape nazi germany.
this is not a review of that work, but the number of europeans who flocked to south america before, during and after, cannot be summarized in what i imagine is a well worded, bildungsroman.

i've never read a book from a kindle.
i don't tinder.
i've only read books that burn.
i've only seen one of the books i've written go to print.
since then i wrote The Puta Manifesto. i trusted the pages to a universal serial bus drive. i trusted the USB to Marco Kelso. he formatted the words with some pictures of me from 1996 into a virtual book. it seemed great at the moment. and then his real love took interest in him once again and he lost whatever The Puta Manifesto was, wires were tripped, circuits were shortened, files were erased, and their daughter was born.

shoegaze.
like a jeff buckley cover of an elliot smith song, jkrawling's world of magical wonders are neither magical nor wonderful. they don't speak the names of magic people, they bank on and burocratize magic, they limit magic by rule of law and order, it's almost as if a muggle who wanted to make a lot of money wrote about appropriating magical appropriation, harry instead of sarah potter.

Harry Potter was heavy and long and repetitive and full of formula designed to lull the young adult's brain into the comfortable space of reading, following plot thread, through familiar settings of schools and racists, secret societies and things that sound british.
HP also stands for Hewlett-Packard, a printing company that stood to profit from Hogwarts.
HP stands in Spanish for Hijo Puta.

JK went on, and on, for four thousand, two hundred, twenty four pages.
that sold half a billion copies.
i can't do the math of the trees that were felled in china and chile so the seven set collection of the series could sit, next to the hunger games, the twilight and the shades of grey series, on fake mantles in the tiny apartments of gentrification.
i do know they invented an actual machine that mimics the lumber harvesters of the lorax to harvest that lumber.

a speaker of truth has no friends.

so when Jen replied, she took me on about lumping her with Julian Assange into a same narrative, bashed the poor fucker, she wrote: "I am trying to think of Assange (one of the biggest assholes I've ever met, incidentally, so madly in love with himself he wouldn't recognize truth if it walked by in a bikini. White male patriarchal bullshit at its most shining) having any relation to me."

Assange spoke real names, banks, burocrats, law and order, reported war crimes, hacked computers, released content, leaked proof and exposed lies.

There is no relation between Julian Assange and Jen Steill, except in that we hold opinions, she about his reputation, me about the value of his work, why is the truth of wikileaks criminal?

It's was my best friend's birthday when i wrote this, she died 11.11.2013. gemini to scorpio.
de-escalate any possible situation before it got too bleak, too personal or too basic.

Casa de las muchachas was followed, shortly before i met jen, with The Puta Manifiesto. It was a twelve part essay written in the three years following 9.11.2001. It was about the energy emitted by the word "fuck".

The Woman Who Fell To Earth was a journal kept.
Good journalism.

trini and jen are both scorpio.
the tea, perhaps is a third friend, another scorpio ivonne montealegre, a blond, blue-eyed costa rican poker player. she moved to malta 2010.

what is artificial cannot be intelligent.
spirit is the intelligence not the cross analysis of data.
a machine, that does not experience the biological duality of sex, cannot be intelligent.

during one month stint in the censurship jail of the social media, i decided to explore the meaning and correlations of the word that got me in here: "putito".
to quote iñigo montoya, "i do not think that means what you think it means"

"putito"
it's a cute little word.
it means tiny man-whore.
a teeny tiny man, who will make love to a woman, for money, fame and/or power, without making the effort of loving women.
he will say all the right things to them, even if they're lies, in order to fuck.
if you say something he'll call you the same name back, shame your sexuality, mock your orgasms.

putitos know and understand the law, they agree with some of it, and disobey the rest.
the difference between myself and a putito is that they stand by, defend and believe in the law.
they live inside the law, they shield their business with it, they apply it to everyone beside themselves. instead of changing the law, they profit from others breaking it.

calling someone antisemite means nothing unless you're a racist.
one that distinguishes between white jews and white christians and white persians.

how i met ms jen steil, author

june 1st, 2020
costa rica
it rains
it rains the rain of a billion years
each and every drop that condenses and falls and evaporates are each and every drop that has ever condensed and fallen and evaporated, since rain was rain, before each world, itself.
each drop is the tiny miraculous gem of atoms once weaponized, now returned, restored, repaired both before and after cern went on and offline.
this is, a year within a year, zero sum to replenish and revitalize all time and all memory, undoing ritual and rite of passage, dark magic, cabals, secret societies, clearing the minds of hate, hurt and worry, the washing of the water, in sleep, filters and removes the thoughts that plague and torment, dissolving the fine grains of bother, unravelling the muddled confusion of threat, revealing every hoax and hex that stood to gain from separation and neglect.
water is life.
and yet, in conversation, what do we say? "que pereza la lluvia".
we attribute rain to sloth.
with one flippant word, for the sake of mundane conversation, we disdain what is most precious, perfection.

it rains on this town.
this town cannot write itself...
under the hum of this rain on its rooftops.

circular timelines between rains, sun kissed, the neighbors don't bother with gossip unless the fights are real, so the quarrels end quickly, some forever.
punchlines are forgotten here and same jokes are laughed at repeatedly.
the mayor closed down all the bars, eventually.

our bar was at the bottom of the hill i'd lived on forever.
once a christian social hall, always a dive, i'd known two men killed near the premise:
billy pichuza and freddy pejibaye.
billy was killed by a blow to the back of his head, in the central market, as he walked home, by a taxi driver who was afraid of him. billy was black and tall and handsome.
freddy was killed by electricity, while welding. freddy had once looked like pop singer Gerardo of "rico suave" fame, before he died though, he'd turned the color of a pejibaye, a very reddish orange.

our bar sat on a corner and was full of caverns.
sometimes it had windows, mostly it had the lingering dusk of every tropical storm, of every time the song dust in the wind had reached someone's ears, the wood floor creaked, the tile remained unfaded, the tin roof leaked and the toilets flowed into the yard. the decorum swung between retro caribbean candle light and trova, to a white washed fade into argentine pop and rock deprogramming, to simply oscar's bar.
jen showed up when trini subercaseux was the keep, she liked to play cepillin pinpon, for last call.

at the other side of the bar, jen was flanked with two eager townies.
she had long wavy black hair that flowed from two silver stars forming at her temples, top mascara over bright blue eyes and proper red lip stick.
trini took her drink and set it over next to mine.
"i hope you don't mind" jen said to me as she sat down.
"not at all, what's your story?"
"i write"
i was glad, because i like it when gorgeous people, who i don't know, be they men or women, admit that they too are constantly on the lookout for another anecdote, metaphor, punchline, irony, epiphany to mull over, share and reflect upon, to spin forwards and backwards, till the staggered walk home feels like a musical number in a movie scene. cepillin pinpon.
writers are the best drinkers.
on that night she explained she'd been holed up at roger white's artist colony in the hills finishing a manuscript, getting over a heartbreak, swimming every day. she was between jobs, assignments, flexing her wings for what would end up being a long flight to Africa, for what i knew, then and there, would be a long career writing about other people and their cultures.
if i recall correctly she'd aim for Malawi, but end up in Yemen, editor in chief at a struggling newspaper, before the internet caught on.
"they don't know the formula for reporting" she said "you know, the who did what where when and why".
she told me about pace makers and the shifting sound they made, about the distractions of dutch men with big brown curls.
it was cute.
like all tourists, larping about overseas, who feel shocked "to their cores" when they see costa rica's sex tourism first hand, the very young girls, boys, the old war veterans in ugly shirts, the drugs and the taxi rides, the politicians and film stars.
i'd no way of informing her, any more than what she could see first hand.
i chose not to be embarrassed.
"it's business" i told her.

wikileaks is business.
the business of journalism at it's finest.
tax payers deserve to know how their money is spent.
how the media they consume is managed.

just writing shit down can bypass television, radio, cinema, cgi, games, brands, chemistry and has the power, if it's in the service of truth, to cancel black magic.

when i met jen, julian assange had published his first wikidrop.
i was coming down off the high of having my first novel win a publishing deal in perú.
trini's argentine disco pub was the cross between macondo azul and oscar's bar.
jk rawling was finishing the last tome of her ten year saga covering the adolescence of a privileged white contemporary warlock.

the bar no longer exists.
the corner building was razed and a parking lot was laid for a bank built on the soppy end of the yard where the toilets flowed.
and rawling has fallen on hard times with her fans for restating that male-female identity are paramount to both reality and magic. without the nature of the female and the male there is no fantasy. the political movement with it's preference specific gender identification is mostly the imagination and as a legal entity or literary device, serve no purpose.
she blew it when she outed dumbledore, a common female misuse of power.
but i did the math. the cold hard numbers. if the tomes of her seven books totaled 4,224 pages and she sold half a billion copies, the number of pages printed is 2,112 billion pages in which none of the adolescents at hogwarts show any interest in occult sexuality.

june 12
third time community standards "violation" back in facebook prison, as of yesterday.
i can still scroll through the 13 year history between the time jen and i became friends, thousands of shares, loves, likes, tears, wows and memes, gifs, congratulations and condolences.
the timeline i share with jen since then is like a brisquit, which neither of us is sure exactly what it is but that it sounds delicious and tricky to cook.

Cuatro Veinte Veinte

quería un gif de peggy olsen y joanne halloway fumando.
no había.
referiendo a la serie madmen, sobre los publicistas que formaron los criterios a la generacion x, vende el sexo, sabores de felicidad, de crayolas, de mineral.
nothing spells trouble like the clattering of a bottle on the floor.
es el día de la marijuana.
del tierroso.
del que no presume ni se alardea de la motorización en su traslado, el que anda a pie descalzo callado, pierna pierna tarso metatarso.
es un día más en la apocalipsis de la biblia, páginas traslúcidas papel de arróz, lectura de motel.
hasta el 2000
entonces las pulpas de pino los tintes carburogliceridas de revistas vogue paris londres nueva york mexico brazil españa. cuanta manufactura infomercial para que hoy nos vacunemos con la marca de la bestia y nos sometamos a la maquina.
celebremos el cáñamo que sigue creciendo, fuerte y valiente, limpiando el aire y el agua mientras duermen los carros.
turbo inyecciones de lubricacion planetaria. ese hombre crudo de terno y corbata no sobrevive el amanecer del nuevo existir en tiempos de pico y pala, de mantras sin artifice, sobre guerras olvidadas.
del cáñamo se hace el plástico, el cemento, el papel, la ropa, la aeronautica, la batería, el insumo bovino y avecopecuario, se hace la medicina para la epilepsia, el shampu y jabón.
su planta de tallo fibrosos resistente y foliaje oscuro abundante atrapa el carbono y lo convierte en oxigeno comunicando las aguas del subsuelo con las del cielo. trasumuta venenos, sana suelos, atrae hormigas, pájaros, ranas, simbiosis y vida eterna.
es la mala mata que junta y protege la biodiversidad de cultivos alimenticios maiz, legumbre, baya.
los madmen lo convirtieron en droga.

daily mail

she pays don vim to keep me, a place to live will ensure my silence.
she's right. i'll be 50 chronologic years old one month from now, Sex and the city spent all my ambition, a long time ago. His girl friday, spent hers.
her friend wrote to me the other day, saying
"i know that i don't know you but i want you to know that i love you."

Mom's always had friends that are her pretend daughters, and they became more noticeable after our Jere passed.
like my baby sister, they all understood her better, she said.
"i love you" is pretty.
and they all seem to have awesome mothers of their own, already.
i would love to have them all as business partners one day.

whenever.

pandemics reveal the need for confession.
the maddening confirmation that we've been alone, all along.
yes we celebrate other people, and nature, and the connection between the cosmos and our imaginations.
but it's up to each and all to decide whether the gate ahead is another portal or another tunnel.

lately she's been befriending architects;
people who learn to read from a to z, to count from zero to nine, to map the daily maneuver of living beings between artifice and structure.
business should be fair and open.
money should never be an issue.

prozac planet

It may have been yesterday, 30 odd years ago, Elizabeth Wurtzel published Prozac Nation.
A short confessional fiction that went to great lengths to describe apathy.
My grandma thought I too should take the Prozac.
Prozac is Fluoxetin.
Fluoxetin is a magical chemical combination that takes away your feelings, good and bad.
It's a lobotomy in a pill.
For faster effect, like cocaine but without the euphoria, it's probably best snorted.
My pineal is my entire face and my sense of smell is my guide through life.
I've done cocaine, it's stupid, the euphoria is fun but the anxiety for more, that follows, is not.
Wurtzel was two years older than I.
The year Kurt Cobain died I was living in Newburgh NY, with my grandparents.
Shampoo Planet was the other hip book to read.
Gen X was getting started with our families and careers.
The ocean smelled like the ocean then.
The ocean doesn't smell like the ocean anymore.
We all wanted to be Salinger, and it was sad.
Strip malls and treeless freeways, processed and packaged snack foods, a sky river of empty jets streaking tube people getting away to who knows where, or for how long.
Blockbuster videos and dunkin donuts.
Camels filtered and Dr. Pepper.
Winona and Johnny.
I didn't read Wurtzel's book, I read the review.
Reviews had become more interesting.
The entire ecosphere of opinion was nascent and had sex appeal.
Everybody it seemed, knew a little about everything, enough to share reality tunnels, affirmations that what we read about in fictions could be coupled with evidence they were true.
Cut to 30 years and the internet of things later and Joe Biden is facing Donald Trump in a general election.
It's 2020. Why are these old thing still operating? People everywhere are wrapping themselves in plastic and alcohol, so scared the cooties will kill them they won't even leave their houses.
Wurtzel died, in real life, yesterday.
Age 52, cancer of the breast, probably didn't feel a thing.

Corona Blog

Day, whatever.
18
nawruz
Yes, the air has cleared and the stars at night are bright and many, sharp against black, and yes it is quiet enough to hear their distant twinkle.
In the day the chicharras rattle out of their shells, sonic, inter dimensional, between skins, the final season along earth's wobble, between the oceans, at the core.
So day is sound and night is silent, as it should be.
And lovers lie close boosting their immunity, feeding the viral frenzy of toilet paper and willful encarceration. They are everywhere in this, which ends where the path no longer goes, ends at the forest line, ends at the water.
Costa Ricaca
I just want to blast rock and roll at the valley, bring your records and your old record player here, your speakers, leave them to me and I will play deep uninterrupted late-night music, late at night.
I want all the street lights down in the town to dim for deep dozing, for the dickheads.
All those men friends who insist that nightlights make it easier and safer to sleep.
That phones make you smart.
That cars make you dapper.

Dreamstate is neither safe nor easy.
The dickheads owe it to themselves.

Infectious or non infectious, disease makes us hungry, and horny.
The empty tank light starts blinking.
Coasting can only get you so far and the kids won't unbuckle unassisted.

Carta Abierta a BYCS

26.02.2020
Hola Lucas,

estoy enviando esto despues de nuestra reunión en línea.
Es una lectura lo suficientemente larga, pero espero incluir todos los puntos por los cuales asumiría la 2ª Alcaldía de Bicicletas, o BiciAlcaldía, de Costa Rica para Ciudad Colón o el Cantón de Mora.

Primero, conozco a mucha gente, en muchos lugares diferentes de Costa Rica y conozco todos los caminos y atajos para llegar hasta sus casas.
Lo menciono porque Costa Rica no nombra sus calles ni numera sus edificios.
Entre los MUCHOS entusiastas de la bicicleta que he conocido, David Gómez, el primer Alcalde de Bicicletas de San José es emblema de nuestro anhelo por vias públicas compartidas y seguras.
Nos conocimos el 2008 o 2009 cuando Roberto Guzmán de ChepeCletas, un conocido tour de ciclismo para San José, David, arquitecto Ramón Pendones, videografos y otros entusiastas, se reunían en el restaurante Tin Jo para conversar sobre el entonces estado actual de la bici afición urbana y para compartir ideas sobre el futuro.

En esas reuniones, tanto David como yo compartimos sobre la consolidación e hibridización del transporte masivo para incluir soportes para bicicletas y otras formas de combinar vehículos.

El lunes 30 de mayo de 2011, en mi casa, diseñé un logotipo para Bicibus, en Google y fijé como mi imagen de usuario en Google una ilustración del actual sistema de buses en San José.

Yo crecí en bicicleta, trotando, caminando y tomando autobuses por todo el Valle Central.
Entiendo las distancias por medio de la calistenia.
El Gran Área Metropolitana mide menos de 80 kilómetros cuadrados, en su núcleo.
Topográficamente, el Valle Central es la confluencia de tres provincias y sus respectivas capitales: Alajuela y Heredia al noroeste y noreste, y San José al sur.

Construidos sobre laderas de volcanes, los tres territorios se topan y colindan en profundas quebradas de ríos Virilla, Maria Auxiliadora y el Tiribí, todos afluentes que desenbocan desde el Tárcoles al Pacífico.

Ciudad Colón está al oeste de San José y al sur de Alajuela. David Gómez vive en Curridabat, al otro lado del Gran Área Metropolitana.

En las reuniones de Tin Jo, acordamos que las distancias promedio cubiertas por los automóviles son muy pequeñas, que el estacionamiento es la verdadera razón por la cual San José, capital de la nación, ha sido estigmatizada, y que las actuales líneas de autobuses provinciales que utilizan el centro de la ciudad como terminales, podrían combinarse y trazar rutas interurbanas que cruzan la ciudad para reducir costos, extender trayectos y ganar la confianza de usuarios.

Ha habido avances considerables en la tecnología eléctrica aplicada a la ingeniería automotriz, pero siempre es para automóviles. Es como si los fabricantes hubieran estado pensando dentro de las cajas durante tanto tiempo que su imaginación no da para más.

No soy una persona de cajas.

No veo ninguna razón por la cual, en un país tan rico como este, no tendríamos que tener un sistema de tránsito metropolitano que sea ecológico, seguro, confiable, gratuito y fácil de usar.

Costa Rica AMA las cajas, digo, carros.

Pero, como mencioné antes, también le gustan MUCHO las bicicletas.
Entonces, ¿qué pasaría si pudiéramos combinar la facilidad y la frecuencia de una bicicleta con tecnología de punta de un automóvil, con el sistema de buses, pagado por el impuesto a las carreteras?
Sólo dependía de cuándo.

2020

Me gustaría ser el segundo alcalde de bicicletas de Costa Rica para iniciar dicho 

Sistema Interurbano de Transporte Metropolitano

SITRAM
y su flotilla de buses interurbanos costarricenses harmonizados alumbrados
BICHAS

Primera parte: Mapas y Maniobras "Cojamos el bus con..."

Una BiciAlcaldía financiaría un estudio de un año de duración para ilustrar el estado actual de nuestras calles citadinas, de nuestra economía, nuestra infraestructura dentro del área metropolitana usando buses, periodistas y pasajeros.

Google Earth aún no ha hecho que Street View of Costa Rica sea opcional para la aplicación, probablemente porque como no hay nombres de calles o números de edificios, el software no puede computar el desorden.

Mi primer proyecto es hacer un podcast casero de Street View para Youtube de ese desastre usando nuestras rutas de autobús.

Usaría un mapa de Waze para documentar todas las rutas interurbanas que entran y salen del centro de San José, que por cierto, se conoce como "CocaCola".

Al viajar en las rutas de autobuses de San José documentaré la infraestructura para demostrar distancia y tiempos; dónde se detienen y comienzan, cuántos conductores y máquinas sirven a cada línea de autobús, sus historias, preocupaciones, salarios, uso de gasolina, subsidios y propiedad. Además, el número y la ubicación de los postes para las líneas eléctricas y paraderos establecidos a lo largo de esas rutas.

Una vez establecidas las rutas, documentaré la humanidad que las transita.
Usando varios ángulos de cámara y micrófonos colocados alrededor del autobús, ese viaje se convierte en un estudio de grabación en movimiento. En el se darán entrevistas, informes de noticias, con la participacion y opinión de pasajeros para crear un collage de la experiencia de los ciudadanos que no andamos en carro.
Documentaré a las personas que usan los autobuses, a las personas que se dirigen al trabajo, a la escuela, a los trabajadores, y yo invitaría a músicos y artistas para agregar otra capa de verosimilitud y entretención.

Este experimento y podcast busca celebrar el transporte público masivo y en ese espíritu de cordialidad, encontrar nombres apropiados para las calles en el proceso. O al menos, nombrar las paradas de autobús.

El pietaje de "Cojamos el bus con..." se pueden utilizar para crear exhibiciones interactivas en línea y en el Museo de Niños.


Segunda parte: BiciBus

Una vez que se hayan documentado los mapas y las maniobras, se crea un mapa alterno que imagina un mundo en el que los automóviles hayan sido reemplazados por maravillosos vehículos tipo tranvía llamados BiciBus que cruzan las ciudad, circulando en unísono desde su centro.
No son buses, como los conocemos, pesan la mitad o menos, son plataformas ligeras, fuertes y móviles para acomodar a 20 pasajeros, sentando a los mayores, acomodando pasajeros con sus bicicletas y facilitando a los que quieren ir colgados.
Son veloces, os pero no peligrosamente rápidos, alcanzan la velocidad promedio necesaria para desplazarse entre vecindarios dentro de los 80k. Son bajitos, cerca del suelo, como una patineta comunal gigante, y techados en receptores solares.

El cambio de mentalidad o de paradigma entre el caos vial y BiciBus, es que, para desplazarse, no hay que ir sentado. Hay que renovar la confianza en las piernas, las cuales los ticos usan poco por andar con los carros amarrados a sus espaldas. O sea, se puede ir, a donde uno quiera sin tener que pensar en gasolina, estacionamiento, cinturones, accidentes, y así, en lugar de guerra, se puede agilizar la economía del goce.

El mapa de Bicibus ilustraría y compararía, el tiempo y la distancia de viaje, la rentabilidad, los impactos en la salud y el bienestar, etc. entre el modelo actual y el eventual.

Como segunda Bici-Alcalde de Costa Rica para Ciudad Colón, encontraría un amplio espacio de apoyo para el proyecto.
Nuestro nuevo municipio acaba de ser elegido, el alcalde aquí es joven, entusiasta, su vicealcalde es experta en topografía.
La BiciAlcaldía facilitaría la colaboración entre la municipalidad, el fabricante de buses Daewoo y las líneas de buses de Santa Ana, Ciudad Colón y Puriscal.
Buscaría presionar a la multinacional privada Globalvía para que renuncie los peajes de Piedades de Santa Ana y así los programas de desarrollo, educación, alimentación y salud de los residentes al oeste de la meseta contarían con un financiamiento por el impuesto al tránsito de más de $10,000 USD al día.

Para concluir, sería ventajoso en estos tiempos nombrar a una mujer como segunda bicialcaldesa.
Entre los municipios y BYCS tendríamos muchos logros en los siguientes 10 años, incluso nombrar a otros alcaldes de bicicletas en las regiones.

Cojamos el Bus con...

Mi casa es una metáfora.

Es estructura, tiene puertas, ventanas, paredes, techos, pisos, cuartos, destinos, enchufes, fontanería, aparatos, muebles, decoraciones.

En ella viven personas de tres generaciones: boomer, X, milenial.

La casa fue hecha por trabajo, esfuerzo y dinero de las tres.

Una puso el marco, la otra los sueños, futuro y posibilidades, y la última puso la palabra “garantia”.

La casa son dos, la principal y la de ingreso.

En este momento, ambas yacen solas.

Solo el hermano mayor, en su afán de no caerle mal ni a la mama, ni a la hermana, ni a la esposa, se quedó solo, con su Dios, relegado a un cuarto de pilas al fondo de la segunda casa, sin la decencia de una cama adulta, duerme en camarote.

Mujer al que se le priva de liderazgo, usa la voz para la brujería.

Soy, como el rocío, madrugadora; como el torbellino que baja los bejucos con manos malinche y sudor en la frente, machete.

Soy todos mis ancestros, sin un solo negro.

Yo ya no vivo en mi casa, vivo en casas, en silencio, acaparando.

Puertas afuera y adentro, en el aposento actual, prima el color blanco.

son las 08:00

nací un día 8.

mis sense8 las nombro en una entrada previa.

no tengo amigos, tengo familia.

tenemos dientes.

omnivoros.

cojamos el bus con… 

invito a los bloggers de ahora y antaño a un podcast que usa como estudio de grabación los buses de la gran area metropolitana de la meseta central de san jose, heredia y alajuela; los invito a montarse al bus de su ruta más recorrida en los personal y profesional, para que le cuente al que quiera escuchar sobre sus estudios, creaciones, molestias, revelaciones, argumentos, quiebres con la realidad, estallido de barreras, en sus propias casas. 

los invito a criticar a los edificios y a los automoviles que arruinan el tiempo; los invito a entrar y salir del viejo casco chepeño entre el mall de san pedro y la ex-datsun en la esquina de la sabana donde antes había un gran reloj para celebrar la percepción del tiempo; los invito a colocar o a sugerir nombres para calles que cuenten el folklor de las esquinas; los invito a apropiarse de la última gran finca centroamericana antes que googleearth lo logre. 

Ms Bauske

Funny you should ask.
What kind of work am I looking for?

Ms Ellen Bauske was the highschool biology teacher at Country Day School in the 1980's.
She was everyone's favorite teacher because she taught science. Everybody loves science because science explains our strange, fragile, uncomfortable existences in a vast unknown universe on a finite planet. It unravels and creates words that reveal mechanisms, chain reactions, chemistry between our brains and hearts and the food we eat, the air we breath, the water that sustains life.
Science is understanding.
The language of science is control and dominion over nature, over our selves.
Science is the study of how we've survived our past and why we are still able to imagine multiple futures despite every attempt to distract and blind us with doom, fate and shame.
Science is our way out of mortality.

But I didn't want to be a scientist.
I wanted to be a journalist.
I wanted to testify.
Without breaching walls, invading privacies or extracting valuables, I wanted to journal about real and fake news, to tell the story of the end of the world, the end of times, the paradigm shift between documentation and realization, between fear and freedom, big picture stuff.

Yesterday 25.01.2020 Ms Bauske reached out on the Facebook chat to help again.
A question, what KIND of work am I looking for?

We're all currently living in the multiverses of darpa, fluttering between sources of information, those who would keep their privacy private and those who have traveled the rabbit hole, opening doors and entering rooms named after Roberts, those who have attended the churches and bowed at the altars, and kissed the ringed hand in dreams.

I would work as I always have, at a table with other humans, sharing stories; waking before the sun to pray and to garden and to keep appointments. It would be a KIND of work were I to let money in IT. So that's what I want, to answer your question.

The work I want is letting money in.
The land is here, at La Ultima Finca, in Costa Rica. These are the last farms, I know where they are and how the water flows through them. I know all the plants personally, which animals and trees have disappeared in the last few years. How the street lights at night have gaslit the pollinators, the owls, the bats. I know that to make these farms fertile again, we need to repopulate the forest with snakes.

The money will multiply here, over time.
And since Ms Bauske is a science teacher, here's my wager.
$1200 divided over the next three months: February, March, April...
So that by May, I can ensure the seed funding of $12,000 to take my journal to the radio broadcasts to the north and south of the American continent and another $12,000 to bring the other journalists to a table where we can talk about the economic benefits of legalizing and growing hemp to replace and heal the damages of mining. Turn 12 hundred into 12 million over the next ten years.

A campaign to talk like grownups, about warfare and lawfare, about food, maps and timelines.

La Ultima Finca 2020

de mapas y maniobras.

se disputan las alcaldías de las aldeas costarricenses.
los barrios, las cuadras, los centros de salud y educación.
saben que como el año, la rata comienza el cero de acuario.
quieren borrar las actas, las asociaciones, los anónimos.
y cuenta nueva.

la última finca lleva funcionando al margen de los blogs ya 13 años. sigue siendo una ventana, disque puerta a las contradicciones y contraindicaciones que cansan el andar forestero.

la última finca es un lugar de verdad.
sobre el mapa google esta desfazado, pero es el cerro boscoso que se ve en todas las fotos de ciudad colón. es el rodeo, es san rafael y san bosco, es quitirrisi, es el centro, sus cuadras, sus condominios alicante, colón y la tertulia, sus barrios bermudez carvajal y calle las carreras, es brasil y la trini.

es un dormitorio particularmente occidental de una ciudad capital chepita josefina, y cómo tal, representa barrios de alajuelita, escazú, santa ana y piedades. una calle vieja sobre sendero que conecta muchas finquitas y muchos apellidos.

la última de la calle el porvenir, por longevo y enclaustrado queda al nombre apellido mckinney.
cliente del ice 1980 d.c. # 49-12-31.

ciudad colón le lleva pagando al difunto marido de laura chinchilla, josé maría rico, un español, una palabra de una cifra que no existe en castellano, ni en maya, por entrar y salir de nuestro cantón, bastante, suficiente.

muchos dicen, y me consta, que hemos pagado por todas las carreteras del sol existentes en todos los países de la #globalvia. los obreros que asfaltaron nuestra ruta 27 venían de venezuela y chile por cierto.

alguno de los candidatos a algunas de estas aldeas aledanas a esa carretera se atreverían a desapropiar el recaudo diario de sus casetas los peajes? para financiar programas de capacitacion y trabajo en technologías, materiales y energías nuevas? un ser tractor es buen candidato para gobernar en un mundo orgánico que perece ante las marcas de la indolencia? cocacola y bayer, venenos de una máquina, formula química de minerías si Curie, se las pueden con el descontrol del espíritu que provocan?

queremos vida, queremos agua, queremos aire.
queremos dormir de noche sobre un planeta que desconoce la amenaza, que celebra el peligro, que corre con lobos.