Je, je, je, jejeje y otros casos sobrenaturales

Querido lector, dejame desculparme por lo que voy a decir. Si algo le parece errado, extrano o sobrenatural, no lo es, es solo apariencia y no es mi culpa. Puedes llamarlo surrealismo, el fin del mundo, la policia y mucho mas... si no puedes llamar a un amigo. La traduccion de google y otros es muy escandalosa y solo puede equivocar el sentido entonces mejor no entender nada que malentender. Adios o hasta pronto!

Queridos hispanohablantes del mundo, no se cuantos sois y tampoco cuantos soy o seremos (ref. Neruda) pero dejamos los numeros y la exactitud a los cientificos para tratarnos de un tema mucho mas interesante.

Quiero empezar esta trasmision con una broma de facebook, quien en 2011 no conoce facebook o caralibro? Bueno A la Bi, es mi nombre caralibresco y lo que sigue es mi estado actual (en ingles):

À la Bi changed his relationship status with Spanish from "In a Relationship" to "It's Complicated". 
Portuguese, Italian, French and English like this.

Eso quier decir que el espanol me cae gordo. [usted posiblemente: gracias por comp/exp-licarlo]. Sin embargo, lo que quiero decir es que me estoy olvidando del espanol, pero como se puede olvidar un idioma nunca aprendido? Dudo que el vino que tomo moderadamente sea capaz de algo parecido... Mi pregunto si hay una diagnosis paradojica o una medicina lobotomica como la bomba atomica que no debe costar mucho ahora con lo que pasa entre Iran y los Estados Unidos...  De todos modos, diagonisarme y curarme inventara nuevas enfermedades para acompanarme hasta mi muerte porque nacimos debiles y moriremos mucho mas. Entonces, no, gritamos NO a las curas, NO a la medicina y a los medicos, NO a la tecnologia, NO a lo que sea...

Cinqo firmas y hago propagando, 2 mas y hago revolucion! Se puede firmar abajo solo comentando con NO!
Hasta siempre,
Al (por Alcoholico)

PS. El castellano es un de los idomas mas alegres que he aprendido (o descubierto) quizas porque siempre lo hablaba  cuando borracho, pero escribiendolo asi no encuentro la alegria prometida, falta algo?
   

γεια σου ζωή μου

γεια σου ρε ζωή, τι κανείς; όλα καλά;
εδώ έτσι κι έτσι. εδώ δεν είναι παραπολή κακά, αν θελήσ μια χαρά...
αλλά περίμενε, θέλεις να ξέρεις γιατί δεν είμαι καλά; σιγύρα;
γιατί είσαι μεγάλη πουτάνα, ρε ζωή, με της μαλακίας, είσαι η χειρότερα, γιατί το παρακάνεις and I swear I would have said more if I knew how to...Αν η ελληνική (είναι) η γλώσσα σου
πες μου, τι θέλεις από μένα; τι θέλεις από ένα άνδρος (όταν/αν) εχεις το κόσμο;;;; σταματά παρά καλό έχω αθυμία και δυσθυμία τώρα και δεν μπορώ να κάνω τίποτα
Θέλω να μάθω κι άλλο ελληνική για να σας πω επίσης στα ελληνικά. έτσι θα ξέρεις κάτι για μένα κάθε μέρα

ένταξη, μπράβο σου και ευχαριστώ παραπολή για όλα...

Cittadino del Mondo o Apolide?

Sin da piccoli, impariamo a categorizzare il mondo intorno per semplificarlo e concepirlo meglio. Questo concetto categorico lo applicchiamo anche per distinguere tra gruppi di amici, compagni, conoscenze, parenti in base alle nostre esigenze e le qualita' interiori ed esteriori dei nostri soggetti (e.g. estetica, razza, paese d'origine, cultura, lingua, intelligenza...ecc). Purtroppo certi stereotipi prematuramente concretizzati e raramente aggiornati potrebbero menare al pregiudizio che da nascita ai fraintendimenti ed all'ambiguita' che contradice il motivo di categorizzare le cose per concepirle meglio.

Avendo viaggiato ed imparato molto e con un cuore sempre aperto per imparare sempre di piu' rinuncio bruscamente ad appartenere ad una sola patria qualunque sia e qualunque siano le stereotipi sottointesi e nondimeno le cattegorie conclusi. Sono contrario ad essere categorizzato come cittadino di un certo paese e non di un altro, di una certa razza e non delle altre. Imperocche, mi presento come cittadino del mondo (cosmopolita), altrimenti mi accontento ugualmente col contrario assoluto, apolide, ossia cittadino di nessun paese (nomado).

Un paio di anni fa ho avuto una crisi d'identita' per pur bisogno di auto-categorizzarmi sia per semplificare la mia identita' e capire me stesso, che per abbreviare la mia risposta a quelli che si chiedono frettolosamente di che "razza" sono, spesso per concludere un discorso appena iniziato. A chi insisteva di etichettarmi o inscatolarmi in una delle loro poche categorie predefiniti, certe volte rispondevo ironicamente che sono cinese o di un altro paese a caso.

Indubbiamente ammetto di aver passato la maggior parte della mia vita finora in libano, il mio paese di nascita, comunque, mi e' impossibile identificarmi come libanese scartando le mie altre cittadinanze e modi di vivere o di pensare. Sarebbe magari paragonabile a parlare della lunghezza delle mie dita per rispondere alla domanda di chi sono, o per non esagerare, la domanda di che misure ho... Dico magari perche la risposta riguardo le dita potrebbe essere buffa ma quella del libano spesso mi riduce ad un terrorista per chi non sa altro. Addirittura mi sono chiesto certo mila volte se una conclusione del genere sarebbe peggio per la mia reputazione o per la sua ignoranza ma non e' mica detto che dobbiamo fare guerra. Anzi, colla mia resistenza a rispondere, o il mio senso dell'umerismo possiamo evitare pregiudizi e fraintendimenti mentre si parla di altre cose fino a quando mi si chiariscono le sue categheorie e la  sua capacita di inventarne altre s'e' necessario. In seguito, mi sbottonerei conformemente ... ecc.

Tuttavia, la mia scelta paradossale tra cittadino del mondo o apolide e' facile spiegarla con la teoria dell'entropia di Shannon, una misura d'incertezza, che giunge il massimo indandicando zero informazione, in entrambi casi di essere cittadino di tutti i paesi o di nessuno. Invece, l'entropia e' ridotta al minimo quando c'e' una risposta definita, nel caso di cittadinanza di un paese solo e in seguito, e' facile categorizzare una persona rispetto all sua unica patria.

A la recherche des mots perdus

Il n'y a pas longtemps, je parlais francais et je me debrouillais pas mal. J'assistais dans un forum des langues pour paufiner mon francais, je m'occuper d'une table francaise dans une universitee ameriquaine, et en plus, je pensais en francais, et donc, dans un sens selon Decartes, j'existais en francais.

Desormais, la plupart des mots m'echape, et les seules fideles, je n'arrive point a les ecrire correctement, donc on peut dire que tout les mots francophones me trahissent mais aux niveaux differentes, soit orthographe, soit expressive. Pire, c'est la vanite pour laquelle j'ecris, et pour laquelle je m'echine a appredre des langues et les perfectionner pour ecrire. Quelle drole d'idee, je m'ammuse enorment a l'articuler!

Par consequant, la recherche des mots perdus, ne changera et ne servira a rien, comme la recherche du temps perdu selon Proust mais non pas a mon avis. puisque son oeuvre au moin a changeait ma vie meme si minimalement et indirecetement a travers "How can Proust Change your Life" par Alain de Botton.

Malgre mon doctorat en informatique et surtout en anglais, j'arrivais parfois a papoter en francais mais avec l'invasion artistique des derniers minutes libres de ma vie, je n'arrive plus a me servir du francais. Peut-etre je m'installerai un jour en france et si j'y serai lontemps peut-etre je me naturaliserai et la recherche des mots perdus sera toute une autre histoir transparente a moi et a vous aussi.

CARALHO!

Bom! Ja disse muito para hoje tambem, vou a deixar qualquer coisa para manha!

A morte do ingles

Peço desculpa ao(s) meu(s) querido(s) leitore(s) que agora precisa(m) traducotres para perceber a inutilidade e a vanidade da minha contribucao electronica. Para muitos, o portugues e mesmo cines, para outros e talvez a unica lingua para comunicar com os outros, para mim e para poucos como o Fernando Pessoa, e' uma patria, uma das nossas.

Entao, vou a escrever a mesma banalidade da minha vida seca, antes articulada em ingles, com palavras ainda nao esquecidas da minha "patria", seja portuguesa ou uma das outras linguas em perigo do esquecimento (como o meu armenho) ou do extincao (como as linguas mortas e.g. latim). Alem disso, a lingua portuguesa e pouco falada aqui e estou farto de falar sozinho.

Hoje nao vou a dizer muito mais do que eu ja disse ontem, entao vou a parar aqui.

Amanha vou a mudar lingua e escrever com uma lingua diferente cada vez ate ter que inventar novas linguas que ninguem percebe, nem mesmo eu!

Dreams, Desires and Other Things I Used to Have

Many years ago, when asked about what items I would carry with me to a distant island, my answer would be too pragmatic (e.g. computer, books...) if not foolishly religious (e.g. bible). In diaries, I kept track of these answers that lacked imagination and audaciousness.

That was until these answers started unfolding into surreal imaginations to quench simple and basic desires that I often tried to express visually but failed immensely. For example, upon my discovering the inexorable satisfaction that the avocado fruit offered in terms of variety of flavors, vital shades of green, and palpable textures, that are unimaginably analogous to women's flavors (also metaphorically), skin tones and textures, I dreamed of inhabiting an island of infinite avocado and women trees, possibly with cross-breeds amongst the two species where women breast-feed, secrete and, but not necessarily, excrete avocado products, such as avocado milkshakes, guacamole and their cousins. I can vaguely remember if that was through a dream or a day-dream, however, I additionally reasoned that pregnancy was unnecessary as women were sporadically inseminated to reproduce asexually via avocado/women trees and other Daliesque elements...

The reason I am writing this leads to the main theme of this monologue.

I have lately been self-diagnosed with a mild chronic depression termed, dysthymia (greek for malfunctioning of emotions θυμία), if any at all (athymia), and anhedonia (also greek for absence of pleasure) and along these come also nihilistic feelings, lack of ambition and desirelessness, which to my great surprise, is considered as the highest state, or the nirvana in Buddhism, regardless of the paradox of having to desire desirelessness, which was never my case anyway.

Perhaps the surrealist "gyneavocado" island was one of the last dreams or desires I can remember or label earnestly as a dream/desire. Then for a long time I was catching up with the real world and its mundane routines, research projects and mislabeled opportunities...


With a PhD about immune-inspired document classification, I feel as if I have traveled lightyears away from the gyneavocado island I have once dreamed of. The path I have chosen was definitely misleading with respect to my ideal island and I have no idea which path, if any, would have lead anywhere towards it...

Happiness in retrospect is its own termite in prospect. It is even the termite of prospection. 2004, 2006 and 2008 promised me great happiness but did they keep it? That is the definition of beauty according to Stendhal. Interesting how even numbered years of the past decade have been significantly prosperous and prominent, but not 2010. I thought I would have graduated by 2010 and that must have thrown my passion to the nadirs.

Mess

My house is a mess, it cannot accept any visitors. Same for my heart. Whoever messed up my heart had hers messed up by another victim ad infinitum. Therefore, I cannot blame anyone but my own lavish passion and restless curiosity, and I can do nothing about it as time proves more and more to me that it is irreversible.

The Ottoman Empire

On 1918 and with the end of the second world war came the end of four centuries of the Turkish occupation of Lebanon and many nearby countries. A more neutral term like colonization comes to mind when I think of our gastronomy that was evolved thanks to the Turks. Regardless of the of term adequacy, I fear that 1918 was not as effective as it seemed about ending the Ottoman colonization and I am not arguing about the cultural, linguistic or culinary influence that it had already made to a certain extent. I am talking about the active invasion of our local media, common talk and even unique identities by Turkish soap opera. The Ottoman Empire is alive and kicking, it is streaming Bollywood of forbidden love stories that are scarily addictive. I am not exaggerating, I am describing a daily experience of solitude when my whole family is gathered in front of the TV between 7pm and 8pm to watch another episode of forbidden love. My solitude is aggravated when the whole nation is petrified for an hour every day by a Turkish soap opera and animated during the day when talking about it as if it were the holy grail. It is said that television is something the Russians invented to destroy American education but my lament is too faint of a sob to be heard, it is overwhelmed by the volume of Television and ignored by generations of couch potatoes. Our poor nation is in constant search of distraction and oblivion after all the wars it survived. Perhaps the miserable lives of our friends the Turks could bring consolation to our souls. Perhaps we can experience vicariously the forbidden love that we cannot live nor dare wish for. If I were asked to give a title to the play we cast on stage every day, it would be "Distraction Ad Mortem" were soap opera is only one minute scene in a theatrical piece about and by mankind.

Infinitely Minute Self-portrait in a Minute

Ineffable I thought I were until I acquired "nothing", "zip", "nihil" and the like, in every possibly interpretable and uninterpretable sense.

Beyond description was my auto-biography until I learned that in an instance of time, whether alive or not, I can be lesser than one of my facial hair follicles that I claim to own but cannot control neither in terms of location nor of orientation.

NON SVM QVALIS ERAM and it is vain to ever define one of my selves or a snapshot of my continuum.  Vainer it is when my complex compartments are functionally superior to my existence. I feel nothing more than a supplier to aimlessly functional organisms with limitations and expiration dates that I cannot even read.

In this infinitely minute self-portrait I say nothing about no one in not more than a minute.



Avec le temps tout s'en va...Leo Ferre's self-portrait does my protrait justice equally.