the tilt shift

«4|4|19

The Beastie

One of the most coveted toys in my childhood were wooden articulated snakes. My younger brother and I positively lusted after these, and gave them great use: not only did we play with them, but we also used them to scare our grandma. Yet even though it seems we were the loyal subjects of these bendy wooden sticks, it was actually them who offered the greater service to us, by feeding our imagination.

The first snake was the matriarch Micotax, the ancestor of all the others who would come later, like Derek and Yanara. She would set the foundation not only for a great ophidian genealogy, but for its mythology too. For at the foot of my brother's bed there was a lake – well, you had to imagine it in the gap between the bed and the wardrobe – and that was Sáiezar's Lake.

Who was Sáiezar? Well, no one, really, yet everyone at the same time; for anyone who fell into the lake would immediately turn evil and emerge from its waters to the war cry of “Sáiezar!” like some infuriated pokèmon. And this myth's pioneer was, of course, Micotax.

I really cannot answer for the logic of our imagination, or the names we came up with, but of course, the spotlight is elsewhere; it is the fun, intricate, years-long stories we lived in playing together that takes centre stage. Micotax had many scales chipped off until it was absolutely necessary to throw her away. It certainly took much battering for us to consider her unfit to play. The physical Micotax left me a long time ago, but the cherished place she has in my memories is there to stay.

#Prose

«4|4|19

A feature common to all the admirable characters in the novel “To Kill a Mockingbird” is the respect for the sanctity of life. Something that may strike as odd, then, is the chasm that is found regarding this matter in three closely acquainted Maycomb women: Miss Maudie and the pair Miss Stephanie Crawford-Mrs Merriweather. all of them belong to the Ladies' Missionary Circle, which as the name suggests, is composed of Christian women; yet it is evident in their race relations that they do not stand out for practising what they preach.

Miss Stephanie Crawford is characterised mainly by having a spiteful tongue and spreading gossip relentlessly, the meaner the better. She does not hesitate before accusing Jem of having been at the Radleys' or shaming Scout for her “unladylike” habit of wearing overalls: “well, you won't get very far until you start wearing dresses more often”, she states when Scout expresses her desire to grow up into “just a lady”. In the very same chapter, at the very same tea party, Mrs Merriweather has a wonderful time blowing her own Christian horn. It is clear to the reader that her boasts of charity and compassion are hollow and self-deceiving, for when talking about the innocent Tom Robinson and family she generously claims “if we just let them know we forgive 'em, that we've forgotten it, then this whole thing'll blow over”.

Miss Maudie, on the other hand, seems to be the only bright spot among the women. While most of the White community cares nothing for the life of a Black person, her love reaches out even to plants: “she loved everything that grew on God's earth, even the weeds”. Also, when the trial is over, she is hopeful and salvages the fact that the jury had taken so long in deciding. Miss Maudie tells the children: “we're making a step – it's just a baby step, but it's a step”.

Harper Lee's portrayal of prejudice is vivid and brave in unmasking the hypocritical Christian ladies that congratulate themselves on their virtue while showing grotesquely racist attitudes. While kindly announcing their intention of reforming and forgiving the Black community, they fail to see that in reality it is the White ladies themselves who are in dire need of reform and forgiveness from the very people they despise. However, the author has left us the truly humble, charitable and kind Miss Maudie as an example who considers that the most important people in Maycomb are “the handful of people who say a fair trial is for everybody, not just us (Whites)”.

#Prose

«2|4|19

How to Sleep a Wink

One of the most pleasurable feelings so considered nowadays is that of barely closing your eyelids in a whole night. How delightful it is to start a day overwhelmed by various impairments to your most natural body functions. How rich to the senses this experience is! Only metaphors can do justice to it. Sundried eyes, a rusty nail driven through the temples, a brain victimated by a vicious cheesegrater, limbs as strong as a balloon and as light as the world. In this wonderful state, even breathing takes a conscious and taxing effort. Well, all this must be wonderful, since it has been increasingly lusted after in the most cosmopolitan cities all over the globe.

Now, staying up late is easy – staying up all night is the real challenge, and it must be practised religiously over and over before proudly announcing to the doctor that critical insomnia has been achieved. So first things first: a full time job or a seven-year course of studies is a must; a combination of both is ideal. A long journey home is added to improve results. Upon arrival, exercise the postponement of certain tasks: homework, exam preparation, dinner, dish-washing, laundry and other household chores. However, these three activities must be done instantly: the intake of at least a litre of coffee, exhaustive social media checking, sitting as much time in front of the TV as is unhealthily possible (actually knowing what is on is absolutely irrelevant).

Tick tock, it's the small hours. A nice drink before going to bed, perhaps? Make that a whole coke bottle. Halfway to the bedroom, suddenly something urgent that was left undone comes to mind – and then another, and another. And then that embarrassing moment at school you will never really get over. And that goldfish you let die. These thoughts are to be encouraged. The aim is to regret every single mistake since birth. This paranoia is just right to set the stage for the next step: alertly pricking up your ears at the surroundings and relating every single sound to your imminent death. Let a wild imagination and the most profound fears run freely hand in hand. Anguish is a great helper too. Try love lost and love unrequited. By absolutely no means must any warm feelings of comfort and hope be summoned.

The alarm goes off just as exhaustion manifests itself in all body cells, and they come and demand that you pay for not having rested. Regretting last night's every action is a clear sign that the whole sleep-deprivation business was a catastrophical success. Bonus points for those who resent each blink, each clink. The situation gets even better if they are able to keep a heavy dull headache throughout the heavy dull day. Ultimate victory is crowned with a persistent bad mood that results in incessant snapping at and death-wishing on everyone, including themselves. So the game goes every day, and one is never too tired to play it.

#Prose

«1|4|19

As the clockhands crawl towards midnight, so do young rascals also – in fact, those who do not are contemptedly counted among the senile already. It seems that only the night owls, the streetlights and the goddess of blue rays, who is fond of curling up in laps and posing idly in living rooms, are responsible for fending off the dark and bringing life into it. Meanwhile, the rest of mortals are unenviably missing out for the sake of trying to add another forty winks to their sleep.

Cock-a-doodle-doo! “Would that sound more or less grating than the average wake-up alarm's beep-beep-beep (kudos to those who managed to make both ends meet)?” We often wonder, while considering the pros and cons of bidding the city farewell. Because no one knows anybody who feels like they have had enough sleep. Because everybody, try as they might with the aid of pills and meditation, eventually grows exhausted of the filth, the honking, the shouting, the transport malfunctions, the downright rage that has made of the city centre its dwelling. And to top it all off, it is so far away from home – not that living right in it is seventh heaven either. so the alarm goes off, right in the middle of the sweetest R.E.M., we hopelessly moan “if only I had five more hours!”, then delude ourselves and place our whole soul into just five more minutes worth of snooze, commit suicide or homicide (whichever opportunity comes first), and then go out to fulfill our daily, dreary, dreaded, dragging, dull civilian duties.

In the hope that few feel themselves related to the following story, I will proceed to describe what I abhor the most about waking up early, particularly in winter. It is not the bone chilling wind. It is the fear. When leaving home just before seven, it is still night. And it is a few minutes short of a ten minutes' walk to the bus stop. Having survived a kidnap attempt in broad spring daylight before, only blocks from home also, the thought is inevitable: how could anything not happen to me now? And who would rescue me? I take comfort from gazing up at the morning star, for all Venus has ever suffered.

Alas, I am not an early bird, though I needs must be, yet if I became one, it would all be for my other starry companion: Aurora. The victorious sunrise, bringing with it a whole burst of magenta, turquoise, coral and yellow hues, conquers over the gloom and the shadows. It seems that only the early birds, the morning light and the goddess of golden rays, who is fond of curling up in footbeds and resting idly on drowsy cats, are responsible for fending off the dark and bringing life into it. Meanwhile, the rest of mortals are unenviably missing out for the sake of trying to add another forty winks to their sleep.

#Prose

«1|4|19

riddle

we're charmed little quadruplets dancing round a post bathing in the sun, and found in favourite books we're a rare sight, searched for coast to coast yet clad in envious green, don't be tricked by our looks one is loving, one faithful, one lucky, one hopeful.

(ɹǝʌolɔ)

#poetry

«1|4|19

day, bye, day · JK

monday ends slumber tears feeble asunder thus commencing labour those sleepy street wanderers

tuesday's the neighbour now this one i savour cité takes you by storm wholly hectic-flavoured

yet now wednesday forms a return to the norm an ever-drawling day jove, pray, will this week gone

approaching thursdày longing for that outré naught quickens one a-bed one is nearly purèe

friday so lovèd freedom so coveted monday, more toil unfair anon revel granted

with weekend despair a rumbunctious affair great plans without number all and nothing to faire!

#poetry

«1|4|19

si no se corre el telón la obra no se puede ver si no se corre el telón el artista no juega su papel y el escenario se te dio y sólo te para el telón y si no lo corrés te lo perdés pero si sí lo corrés ahí te ves y te esperás y te llevás y te encontrás en tu voz y ya no son dos voz y vos y ya no son dos vos y voz

#poetry #song

«1|4|19

She Walks in Beauty · Byron

ella camina, hermosa como la noche sin nubes, con estrellas a derroche y la penumbra y la luz se hallan elevadas en sus ojos, su talla domadas bajo su dulce alumbrar negado del cielo al día vulgar

una sombra o ausencia de sol daña esa gracia innombrable que ilumina su dulce arrebol o baila en su cabello trenzable ¡pura, amada mente bajo su melena! donde ella se expresa dulce y serena

sobre su mejilla y frente tan tranquila pero elocuente su sonrisa compradora y radiante habla de días de buen talante dentro de ella apacible su mente y un corazón de amor inocente

#poetry

«1|4|19

He is as fiery as chili, as stern as a grandfather clock, as cranky as an old wooden chair – yet as homey as a fireplace, as cozy as a blanket, and as good as yakult. Ginger is as warm as a kitten – because he is one.

#Prose

«27|9|18

The World Will Never Be the Same After Reading This

You just did it. Did what? What every advertising agency aims to attain – your interest; because once you are hooked in, it has a chance to sell. Now streets, visual media and our phones are simply crammed with ads, we all know they are unavoidable. But what about that sneaky ad you almost didn't recognise as one? The title of that interesting article you are about to read, that incredible video you will watch, that amazing online sale you just cannot miss?

Clickbait at best, will call to your attention many products or pieces of information you were already interested in anyways, and present them at the tip of your fingerclicks. Customers get what they want quick and easy, businesses make money, win-win situation, everyone is happy.

Yet clickbait also presents itself through less innocent ways. While in the first case the product is only harmlessly buttered up for the sake of desirability, there are other cases where it is awarded qualities it does not have. There is a promise that will never be fulfilled completely; in reality those second-hand boots are not good as new, that dog's fur is not naturally blue, and no, that alien-looking flower shown in the video's thumbnail does not really exist. But hey, you did learn something about the other ten fairly strange-looking flowers! However, the absolute worst kind gives 0% satisfaction, 100% dissatisfaction. The dreaded virus, disguised as the ultimate solution for your crow's feet. The consequences of clicking on these links are as undesirable as the bodily disfunctions they claim to solve: these virtual trojan horses can and will damage or destroy files and infect system areas of a computer or router's hard drive. Well, the saying goes, if it is too good to be true... better not click it, just in case.

Wherever money plays a part all around the world, a sort of clickbait is used, trying to entice the public. They're in shops, restaurants, billboards, hotels, and even in respected institutions like schools, hospitals or churches. Sometimes clickbait takes a friendlier form, and in other cases it is deliberately deceptive. To avoid being reeled in, bear a critical eye on what is presented through it. That is the key exercise to skirting many dangers in life. Who is thinking for you? yourself, or someone else trying to profit off you?

#Prose