secret place

my happy thoughts are places, are rooms that i can alter and add or subtract windows and doors, in my mind the layouts of homes and structures i've inhabited for long and short periods of time. it's the only sheep to guide my sleep a ceiling view of floor map and feng shui. it's all i care about when i'm listening quietly to any conversation that has no form beyond forms, interests i do not share, concerns over concepts i cannot render into 3d graphics of plumbing, wiring, roofing, gardening equations. i may seem attentive but we're in different chambers and i've probably already spoken my peace. 

it is perhaps vestige of reading A Little Princess, a children's novel by Frances Hodgson Burnett, first published as a book in 1905. It is an expanded version of the short story "Sara Crewe: or, What Happened at Miss Minchin's", which was serialized in St. Nicholas Magazine from December 1887, and published in book form in 1888.

sarah crewe could imagine herself out of anywhere, and any situation, just as long as her posture was straight, her inner compass could find the north out of any hall, down any corridor, to where the tiniest draft of wind came through and there, to where there was snow or summer beyond. the minchins like the munchausen were helpless to hold her thoughts, had no check to keep her, like heidi, from having heavy hair. heidi was objectively inspired by the little princess and her author still lives, a neighbor in switzerland to tina turner. the myth of these children who were greater than any envy of them who used the divine power of imagination to elicit faith from them for the adversity they overcame. 

stay in what powered you as a child and there is no power on earth to stop those thoughts manifesting. 

so i move about between rentals and have agency over none. and my mother holds the sale of family home to give out money among the heirs. i rank second, first female, as of today, still unwed. it's my culture and my place to name my blog the last farm, nobody would sell it. as if at her death i could not get all siblings from four divorces and extended family names. nee, the survivors of gibson hoot, to buy it back. its not like i've spent the last 15 years since our father, the builder constructed our legacy through faith and his own skillful imagination. you just cannot build an empire with an aquarius who seeks change, without clear hirarchy of descendants, the one best suited for the business of building, an agent that can change without loosing the intention. when we marry, we marry for family. divorce leaves children, especially girls financially vulnerable. 

FH Burnett knew this and told our story. and it gets told time and time again on cinema, and every time the male producers get it wrong, becky is so dirty she seems black (african) she is irish, sarah is very pale, has black hair (because her mother is definitely indian) and green eyes, and in the end, it's her father's friend who finds her, not her father. and yes it's supposed to be weird in a romantic way. our imaginations have mapped every sensible outcome and redesigned almost every room. there is no farm to sell. 

rest in power -sister sinaed

8 diciembre 1966 nace. la pelada, la que primero fue, la que sentido le hacia, y a grito pelado, el rock irlanda, isla esmeralda, sus ojos. 1988 mi último de colegio, entre chile y tennessee, el gane del no, el imperante sentido de destino politico, social, moral, la previa a las tres mencionadas en el articulo anterior, y sin ella esos frutos que no fueron, y los que sí y hoy se casan y hacen abuelos, a mis amistades no les cambio su parecer mi obsesion con the lion and the cobra. ya escuchaba musica antro, me hacía la interesante en sabado gigante, ese pinche disco me salvo el resto, estos 30+ años de existencia, las otras muertes de famosos y los musicos de esta era. sinaed oconners, sus primeros dos discos, ya me han hecho llorar su muerte antes de morirse. sus letras en mantra ya me han salvado de la amnesia causada por tristezas inhumanos, ella le rompio la foto al demonio en saturday night live y canto war acapella. no hay semblante de poder masculino o femenino sobre este planeta que la vaya a superar. gracias a ella, todo.  

Well, you tell us that we're wrong

"Anybody want to drink before the war?"

1984 y el conundrum pop

the clown circus that is music lately. la gaga, swift, hasta shakira, every one wants to be bjork, tori amos, or pj harvey. that's a 21st century given. everyone else is generic and derivative of those three galvanizers from the 90s north atlantic that rode the wake of b52s, karen carpenter and janis joplin. beyond that, it's all black music. talk about.

pop may be evil, but it's been through the colander of the female psyche, for the past 50 years, we are the joni mitchells to the james taylors, the dione warwicks to the burt bacharachs, the yoko to the oh nos. women with our earlobes and our ovaries, wave after radio wave, catching it all, moving it through. if i'm wrong, tell me she didn't spend all her periods listening to pop music.

the modern things have always existed. by they that read this. bjork was our north pole, when by a fine night tonight a prodigy came out on rave. house music destroyed the spice girls. always as long as we've been able to link alphabets and numbers google per second, in our heads, on this ball spinning round a giant star, with the heightened senses of real menstruation, somewhere jew knows where, the devil has tried to claim us through catchy melody and unfiltered lyrics. his conundrum is, while he may have had our attention, briefly, pop became an utter failure to captivate our souls. a gaga of swift dua lippas make the most dreadful playlists and fat kikis. man declared speech free to hate them, not because they cheat and copy other female artist's unique sound, but because they're boring.

with the exception of bob dylan, all pop was protected, was great, competitive and human till 2001, 911. we'd been through the syllabus of 1984, orwell, in the year 1984 while listening to pop music in the background. if you were into countdowns and marvel comics, all science fiction, dystopic handbooks describing the soulessness of communism read in the same quiet earnesty of steinbeck or twain. our eyes had heard the words put to paper at times before and during great wars and the perils of nuclear weaponry. shakespeare did not write alien and cronenburg was on drugs, which kind and how mattered to the quality of the story and most wanted to be mass published like bradbury, mass consumed like madonna.

in 1984, we knew they wrote with pens. pop artists likewise.

and by the time the grand three of white girl rock began composing, all those bics aspired to capture cocteau twins. pitch the baby, elizabeth frasier. all of pop's everything had an eighties synth moment, a step away from quincy's jone, the megapolis of emtivee, the wreckless proclivity induced by fenders and gibsons alike. periods experienced in silent winter nights, a radio somewhere in the dorm that blasted the pink opaque, our newly matured bodies transcended blood. like dead can dance, the primitive history of the bonfire caught up with the cornflake girl first name angeline, initiating pj and tori and bjork to create the sift of underlying enya, that stretched chord and heavy bass, pop's antidote for the devil's subtext. 

without the psyche of women, the sirens, the banshees there would be no odyssey for ulysses. music hits women differently than it does men. we don't like to admit it, but music sends the feminine into rapture differently than men. the masculine will tolerate pop as means to execute and monetize it, build and equip songs with hooks and lines to compete for our humanity. they make everything sound like coldplay and smell like sanitizer.

that's why i don't even listen to female or male pop artists. not since 2010. since amy winehouse died. i don't care who killed her, she's alive between my earlobes, i don't bleed anymore. and the big three we all wished to be, could very well read this today. 

if it's not writ with pen on paper, pop never happened.