![\"\"](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/arielsheen.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/12\/IMG_1138-e1513178511848-768x1024.jpg?resize=768%2C1024&ssl=1\")
<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
“I always dreamed of going South and starting over”
\nThe man who ran after the wind<\/p>\n
Today’s society is us, living poets
\nDo not allow the life to happen to you without your living it
\n– Walt Whitman<\/p>\n
Months ago I met a couple of drunks
\nSubmissive to the social opulence of a guild.
\nIt was a couple of hours.
\nI did not need more to lift the mat from his inert whereabouts
\nmaintained based on a white powder of illicit jungle
\nthat tinanciaban with the accumulated intellect of the years,
\nand the juggling of a scalpel thirsty for organic time.
\nA couple of decades invested in the knowledge bank
\nin the search for the South American dorado
\nto become vampires of dreams
\nthat brought new light to their patients. but darkness for their spirits.
\nI remember them as a pair of tireless bigmouths in front of me,
\na man from town.
\nSitting by his side,
\nhe listened as they devoured turns to fill the foundations of his
\nstatus,
\nwere not to exclude them from the wealthy link that was now yielding
\nbills
\nand eat shit again,
\nfeeling “once again the popularity of its origins.
\nTo show the eyes of the smallest,
\n-and more stupid-.
\nHe did not live life in his retinas,
\nhalf yertas,
\nlike anguished meat
\nthat cracked and resurrected robotically<\/p>\n
under an inhospitable light Melancholy is the joy of being sad. I do not know if it’s the mist that comes through the chimney O the euphoria of a love simmered, gradual, secret, The tango of you would have and we would have learned in a Life in a bottomless drawer A shelf photograph that holds the pillars of your absence The collection of Maghreb shoes that were left without your feet.<\/p>\n The writing of a tickle handbook for our gray days Breakfasts and dinners that still know the maturity of a romance A hollow guitar -as you left my body- Anyway, You have to understand that life is composed of agitations of the soul, Because like the vines of an unattended yard It is so cute Mario Benedetti<\/p>\n I found it in the development of our passions, Barefoot throbbed Earth wounds My soulmate, Your hands named lifesavers. We have learned to wait for the rain as something good, My hands named lifeguards, We merged slowly into fleeting ports, I discover myself by your side every day, You discover yourself by my side every day, Some enigmatic images show a badly wounded whale the surface of an unknown sea while a voice in off utters the sickening words: “Once I saw a whale with three calved harpoons and it still moved. It took an entire to die. We meet the bellena again. We had never been closer. He was weaker because of the harpoon that had fired at him. And covered with scars from all the battles I fight.”<\/p>\n We do not know where we are or who is the narrator. The we will find out more adclanlc. For now, outside of that scene inaugural, the story officially begins with the arrival of two boys\u00a0to a remote place, the island of Bastoy, located in the fjord of Oslo, Norway. There reigns a disturbing peace where the cold, the fog and the sound of the waves and the wind tend to silence the voices of their forced tenants. Or maybe it is not only the wind, but we do not advance events. Well, in this land area of \u200b\u200bone square mile stands a reformatory for\u00a0young misfits that lasted more than fifty years since its opening at the beginning of the 20th century.<\/p>\n As in other narrations of a prison nature (and this one is), the\u00a0first minutes are intended for introductions into this microcosm,\u00a0in that place where time seems to have stopped in its tracks and in,\u00a0the one that flies over a calm that is nothing but the prelude to the disturbing,\u00a0realities that are sheltered there. The inmates there have been held\u00a0stripped of their names and their daily work alternates physical works with Except for a few facts, we ignore Erling’s notebook, two young people who have just entered the center and about which the story begins to direct their attention. Erling, unlike the rest of the reprobates, who have internalized the rules of the game and behave like automata.\u00a0Rapidly highlighting an indomitable character that leads him to be subject to harsh penalties. This composition calls the attention of one of the convicts of Bastoy. Olav, who, after having been there for six years, has completed a model of institutionalization in such a way that only a couple of weeks remain to be reinserted into society. The price has been high. Olav has had to keep silent, obey the orders of his superiors and ignore the injustices that have been testified. But something inside seems to have been removed after witnessing the unyielding Erling temperament and, in fact, despite the initial rivalry, will be producing between them a solid friendship. Throughout this journey, the camera registers with meticulousness the persistent glances of Olav, who assists admired again and again to the indiscipline actions of his commiffer. This friendship begins to shine as it becomes a denim light of the hopeless stage that welcomes them, a sign of humanity in a scenario dominated by sadness. While the relationship between the two boys evolves, the new convict will need help to write a letter addressed to his sister. It tells a strange story about his past experiences as a sailor… and about a hardy whale that refused to perish.<\/p>\n The question is that an exchange in the roles established by the narrative, because who we thought was a Secondary character (Olav) will initiate a gradual but moving process Transformation until seize the role of the film. This in this way, we are witnesses of an individual in whom the flame of the indignation, the nonconformity, the courage. . . , to the extreme of give up that longed for exit that, in the initial phases of history, A destination impossible to change. Many things passed between them, a revolt spurred by Olav himself after checking that the preceptor who had raped one of the boys in his barrack. Driving him to suicide, he has been reinstated in his position. Per, suffocated the Insurrection, the main character now will be the only inmate that achieves Evade the reformatory. Yes, unfortunately it will not be accompanied.<\/p>\n Events seem to have come to an end; but it is then when we return to those enigmatic images with which the story. And we guess its nature. These images, now we know, are mental projections of Olav from the marine narrations dictated by his old partner. We deduce that these recreations are have sedimentznlo in the memory of the character and tend to reappear\u00a0over and over again in your imagination knowing that a portion of your current idiosinerasia was forged thanks to the example of that figure that instilled in him the seed of nonconformity. What we contemplate, therefore, it is nothing other than the internalization of an alien story, now integrated into the consciousness of another person. A prolonged ellipsis we moves to the present. Olav, as an adult, wakes up from his rest when, In the fishing vessel where you work, you are informed that you are Approaching the region to which the island of Bastoy belongs. Olav goes out on the deck and is reunited with the unmistakable sea that surrounded that prison where he spent a good part of his adolescence. And it’s here, with a noticeable pang of emotion, when those who return to their memory Mementos where he had no choice but to leave Erling behind, accidentally engulfed by the waters of an icy fjord, and travel with a wounded leg that snowy desert in search of his freedom.<\/p>\n The island of the forgotten ones (Marius Holt, 2010) Ink from the South IV La Tinta Del Sur IV “I always dreamed of going South and starting over” The man who ran after the wind Interpretations of Carpe Diem Today’s society is us, living poets Do not allow the life to happen to you without your living it – Walt Whitman Months ago I … Continue reading “Translation of La Tinta del Sur IV”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[91,88,94,3,92,10],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3611","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-colombia","category-eclectic-intellect","category-poetry","category-spanish","category-translation","category-travel"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"acf":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p8e7kf-Wf","jetpack-related-posts":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/arielsheen.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3611","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/arielsheen.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/arielsheen.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/arielsheen.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/arielsheen.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3611"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/arielsheen.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3611\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3646,"href":"https:\/\/arielsheen.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3611\/revisions\/3646"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/arielsheen.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3611"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/arielsheen.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3611"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/arielsheen.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3611"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nin claustrolobic salons heartless by reputation,
\nwhere I had long ago evicted empathy
\nto house the opinions of his greed.
\nIts procedure is only one of codes and coordinates insensitive to the
\nhappiness.
\nHappiness that installed in air castles and on occasional ski passes in
\nDeluxe class to make yourself feel more human.
\nEmpire that proudly exhibited his friend, and clan mate,
\nin its brand new Silicon Valley technology.
\nHe also boasted of the collection of skirts that attracted his wealthy robe
\nwhen walking the clinical corridors,
\ndetailing that more than one of her legs trembled at the perception of her aura.
\nHis pulse did not tremble, especially his soul, when he looked at his patients.
\nAt the same time,
\nthe other butcher laughed, and the game followed him like a good henchman,
\nputting on the table his last big orgy.
\nStory he described while holding the ring on his ring finger.
\nImmersed in a sea of \u200b\u200btequilas I ventured to ask them about their
\nconscience
\nThe most stupid,
\nHe commented that it was one of those nights that he would pay to be called
\nLifetime
\n-I imagine so that, at least, in his name it would harbor a loophole
\nhumanity-
\nEmbraced in body – but not in spirit – this pair of idiots
\nI grabbed the drink and with hand up
\nrepudiating his smiles scalpel
\nI toasted for a long life
\ndespising each one of the pillars of his asquer\u00f3so Carpe Diem.<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/arielsheen.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/12\/Whitman-Quote.png?resize=840%2C704&ssl=1\")
Murio en Diciembre<\/h1>\n
\nVictor Hugo<\/p>\n
\nwhen in our kitchen it still smells like your laughter.<\/p>\n
\nlike good sex,
\nbut with a Woody Allen ending.<\/p>\n
\nMontevideo
\nand that I did not know how to interpret in other trips after your death.<\/p>\n
\nwhere we used to write down the list of our outbursts
\nto avoid the reproaches of the good morning of the last Monday of the month.<\/p>\n
\nand that supported by esparto tunovela
\nrefuses to the cliffs of amnesia.<\/p>\n
\nthat powders and wears since I do not move your waist.<\/p>\n
\nWhen I set the table and nobody takes over your cutlery.<\/p>\n
\nwhere the nostalgia is now scattered,
\nand that I can not find a way to refine when December returns.<\/p>\n
\na post-feeling without rancor that drowns in the mornings, without reaching
\nkill the will to live.<\/p>\n
\nand that melancholy has those qualities,
\nthat does not understand deaths, nor feeble hearts,
\nnot to overly depreciate it.<\/p>\n
\nit spreads stealthily down the slopes of the marrow
\nuntil you hit the memory interlinings
\nwhere the most precious fantasies and memories come together,
\nthose. No wonder in the markets of\u00a0forgetting I have no pretext for me
\nto forget.<\/p>\nSoulmate<\/h1>\n
\nKnowing that you exist<\/p>\n
\ndisheveled by the mischievous sunset of a recent Patagonian past_
\nHis face shone when he put his coffee smile to use
\nthat hardened her chin and stretched her eyebrows in a loving way_
\nHis wise and pointed nose
\nwhere he exhaled the smell of beauty.
\nHis mouth cracked by the salt of the southern seas.
\nHis arms sunburned by the will of the heavens of the world
\nThey were holding an Andean leather pouch that looked light,
\nbut that hid an anthology of jars full of handfuls of
\nother lives.
\nBehind him a halo of hope balloons gave color to the
\nplatforms of your dreams,
\ndreams that were similar to mine.
\nHe did not flinch in tourist class, he was born in it.
\nIt got on trains, cars and carts, unknown agents
\nthat opened his appetite for continuing to breathe.
\nEternized the curiosity of the whys and why
\nto give a sense to the direction of the invisible before the eyes.
\nWith carbonc\u00edllo stamped memories on ocher leaves
\nthat signed in verse
\nHe hung in his wandering rooms to enlighten other travelers.<\/p>\n
\ngoing through the years of the towns and their fields,
\nand with words and silences it illuminated the exile of those who believed
\nforgotten
\nMy traveling soul, was not always an expert,
\nI was also sensitive to pillow fears,
\nI had outstanding scars to cure
\nand even I recognized to run the curtains some sunrises to avoid
\nthe sadness of the West.
\nAnd I cried, believe me I cried for their sins and weaknesses,
\nI cried until I blushed the iris of their green almonds.
\nI have to say that, in a way that I still do not know,
\nuntangling the amygdala and flattening the road to resilience.
\nDisarmed, not sunken,
\nhe painted his lips with the brush of the bougainvillea of \u200b\u200bthe Mediterranean,
\nand he threw himself into the street without plans or ties,
\nagain on the road,
\nwhere I found it,
\nwilling to tattoo his memory with another trip
\nand to fill new jars with the knowledge of the world and its people.<\/p>\n
\nmy traveling soul,
\nmy partner.<\/p>\nIn the valley of. An<\/h1>\n
To the sea (us)<\/h1>\n
\nrescuing the shipwrecks of my lonely afternoons.
\nThe silence of the moles on your back.
\nYour smile like a Cove,
\n(prelude to your chest lit between my hands).<\/p>\n
\nto share a candle,
\nto hold the music between your fingers,
\nto light the incense that rests in a blink.
\nAnd we grow every day like a garden, between seeds, books and photographs. ‘<\/p>\n
\nRescuing the shipwrecks of your lonely nights.
\nThe waves of my hair where we both inhabit.
\nMy hands that are a bowl where I keep your teachings
\nAnd they are white thread that repairs your wounds.<\/p>\n
\nFreeing our shoulders of a weight that we carry on our backs,
\nand the notes of a past that hurts your ways and mine.
\nWe are ocean and sea bordering coasts,
\nWith that sound that diluted fears and absence.<\/p>\n
\non the high seas, with its waist full of maritime foam.
\nAnd I always see your eyes as a beacon,
\nfairy where the air that escapes from my mouth goes.<\/p>\n
\nmaking your voice a work of art,
\nmaking your walk poem,
\nand you see me knitting \u00f1ores to decorate my breasts,
\nas we grow each day as a garden,
\nbetween seeds, books and photographs.<\/p>\nI give you a movie …<\/h1>\n
\nlessons in classrooms. The treatment of workers and vigilantes who are in charge of maintaining the correctional is a reflection of that confrontation between oppressors and oppressed often dismissed not only by the extreme rigor of the context, but also by that tendency (painfully human) to the army of power over queines are \u00a0onsidered inferior on the social scale.<\/p>\n
\nJose A. Plans Pedrefio<\/a><\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/arielsheen.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/12\/IMG_1152.jpg?resize=768%2C1024&ssl=1\")
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"