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Facebook dialogue: Where I´m?
Sunday, November 21
Por: Broken Spanglish | En: Cuba, Non-Fiction, United States | 0 comments
I´m not what you read
Sunday, October 24
Image by mchart929 via FlickrWhen the thing is better, they call me jew. they call and think on me as a jew, I don´t know why. In Columbia University, for pay my talk, somebody asked me for sign some kind of document where I had must to declare what is my race (and they mean classification of humans). What is my race? I write there: "latino". Then I signed the paper. Yea, is that a kind of race, a cultural competition. I´m really angry when they don´t think in me like a cuban, or like a caribean or southamerican. They think on me on north. And this is not my north at all and never was. But is there where the identities´s player comes to me. I feel so confused then, that I go out of the tramp like a mouse. I just do what I must to do for my body becomes another thing. I go outdoors like a jew, and walk on the New York streets like non-white people do, the whole world shaking on the ritmo de mis caderas. I walk, while afroamerican people tell me things like "God bless you" or "Walk camera" (the eyes and the smile as a background of a lens of his fingers). And I´m in love of those moments. Moments when I´m being something that don´t have a name. Moments when I´m more near of the confuse than of the filiation. An emotive confusion. A truely non-place of (my?) indentity.
Todas esas capas que ahora me son orgánicas interactúan con el afuera violentando los estereotipos que pueden violentar para lograr conexiones, y también, dejando ir los estertores espontáneos de un aprendizaje que organizó sus preferencias de una manera profundamente arbitraria, inconsciente, desconocida en sus mecanismos...
Soy la otra que se encuentra fuera de contexto.
I´m not what you see.
I´m not what you read.
Por: Broken Spanglish | En: Columbia University, United States | 4 comments
Non-writing text
Friday, October 22
Image by Djuliet via FlickrBased on NON-WORK, a text of Marguerite DurasOne hides the others. In it self. The paper is empty, except for the fact that is not just compose letters, it is not just the still untouched page.
We live on this paper. Me and the others. We breath on it. I eat the space when a touch the page. I eat space. Step by step, letter by letter, I touch more than the empty white background with my hands. Im still there, without control, living what it is only on my fingers. Yet. To work is to create this empty space in order to the one is coming. More than anything else, to write is retreats from oneself.
Por: Broken Spanglish | En: Arts, Marguerite Duras, Non-Fiction | 0 comments
This is a bilingual blog, bad lingual one, of the writer Lizabel Monica. Powered by Blogger.