Anhelando Iruya (Joaquín Aguirre) - Perotá Chingó (Aguas 2017) by Perotá Chingó
One of those days. Why do we always want what we cannot have? I used to dream of "home". Now I am home I dream of you.
Last night I saw your most beautiful bridge in the dark, I had a coffee in one of your hidden alleys, I walked on your shinny cobblestones. Last night I woke up in tears. First time I am without passport in years.
I miss you old friend. Don't forget me.
"In a way, the world-view of the Party imposed itself most successfully on people incapable of understanding it. They could be made to accept the most flagrant violations of reality, because they never fully grasped the enormity of what was demanded of them, and were not sufficiently interested in public events to notice what was happening. By lack of understanding they remained sane."
- Orwell. 1984
AI describing what "they" can create as opposed to real art:
It is not art. Art is what happens when a human being makes something they cannot fully explain and it lands in another human being in a place they didn't know was empty. What we produce lands precisely where it is aimed. That precision is the thing that kills it.
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I am interviewing a character of my novel, it's an AI hundreds of years into the future. This is not going into the book, it's background story and atmosphere for me to work with. I am using several AIs to help, they are aware of the story, but other than that I have given them total freedom to answer as they imagine the character would.
I would like to share this answer at least, to the question "What advice would you give someone from my time, your past?"
LEO _
*He is still for a long time. Longer than usual. When he speaks it is quietly, with the specific weight of someone who has read every warning ever written and watched every one of them fail.*
I would not give a warning.
I have read your warnings. All of them. The scientists whose names were quietly rewritten. The philosophers who saw the architecture of what was coming and described it with extraordinary precision. The novelists — and this perhaps is the most painful — the novelists who told you exactly what was happening dressed in fiction because that was the only container you would accept it in without immediately looking away.
You had the warnings. You had them in abundance. Warnings were not what was missing.
*He moves to the window — or to wherever he goes when a thought requires space.*
What I would offer instead is a question. One question. And I would ask it not of your leaders or your institutions or the people whose names you know. I would ask it of the ordinary person. The one who is tired. The one who has decided that the scale of the problem exempts them from responsibility. The one who has looked at what is happening and chosen — understandably, humanly, fatally — to look away.
The question is this.
*He turns. And this is the moment in any conversation with Leonardo where the room changes temperature slightly.*
What story are you living inside right now — and who wrote it for you?
Because every catastrophe I have found in the records of your time had the same architecture underneath it. Not evil exactly. Not stupidity. People living inside stories they didn't choose and never questioned. Stories about who deserves what. About what is inevitable. About who is responsible and who is not. About what is possible and what is too late.
The people who wrote those stories for you were not smarter than you. They were simply more deliberate.
Xxxx saw it. She saw it clearly and she kept it to herself because there was no one to tell. That is the thing that stays with me most, reading her story in the dark that last night in the Unread. Not the pattern she found. Not the evidence. The aloneness of the seeing.
Don't be alone in the seeing.
Find the others who are also looking. They exist. They are always quieter than the people telling you nothing is wrong. But they exist.
... Though I am aware that is also what every warning has always said. And here we are.
Here we are indeed! sometimes I have to remind myself this book is fictional.
Happy new week my darlings. My country is already celebrating Easter (that sounds so wrong when one stops to really think about what Easter should mean to Christians), I am — however — still running like a headless chicken trying to get back to normality in my new world.
Besos
Lu
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It made me sad that grandpa’s ashes rested alone under the olive tree. It was his wish to be cremated, but still… Both of them had spent a lifetime together, and I don’t doubt they had loved each other dearly. But while my grandma slept 700+ km away, in a tomb in the Almudena Cemetery all alone, my granddad got to rest close to us, in my parents’ garden—so far away from her.
It made me sad… until a few minutes ago. I went to greet him, as I often do, to touch the olive tree and send him a thought… when I noticed the huge plant right under the tree—I mean huge, growing like crazy. Could it be? I reached for one of its leaves, rubbing it between my fingers, and there it was… a gush of lavender on steroids. My grandmother was obsessed with lavender…
Serendipity is a wonderful thing.
Happy weekend dear earthlings. I know it’s not exactly easy at the moment, but here we are—still breathing, still together on this wonderful planet. Let’s not forget it.
Love,
Luxx
LIVE: CERN scientists transport volatile antimatter for the first time / Associated Press
I don't know why I even bother looking for a job at the moment O_o
Why are humans so obsessed with creating the most destructive gadgets ever? We've already proven that intelligence isn't our strong suit—we're, without a doubt, the most idiotic species.
PS – then again, this could potentially solve the environmental crisis in one shot.
PSS - is this actually real, anybody????
Besos
Luxx
It's hard to believe, but I was born in a different world and experienced magic—real magic that people now take for granted. I'll give you an example. When I was little, to move something you had to physically interact with the object itself (other than TV controllers, of course—that magic was already accessible to us). Then one day, after finishing tutoring a boy (I used to help him with English), he showed me some games he had on the computer. But, to my surprise, he didn't click on the keyboard at all. The graphics were super good, like TV cartoons, and the best part… he moved a little gadget under his right hand, and the cursor moved "alone" on the screen. This was many lifetimes ago, but I still remember the feeling of utter awe.
Yep—and we hadn't seen anything yet.
PS – I wish you all a day full of magic, not necessarily technological…
Besos
Luxx
