27 jun. 2015

el Síndrome del Lucio


En un experimento llevado a cabo en una enorme acuario con una serie de lucios, que son unos peces carnívoros capaces de comer gran número de pequeños pececillos cada vez que abren la boca, un grupo de investigadores aislaron a uno de ellos a un lado de la pecera, separándolo del resto de peces, de los grandes y de los pequeños, por un cristal transparente.

Durante un tiempo, el lucio intentó comer algunos de aquellos peces que nadaban frente a él, pero cada vez que abría su boca, golpeaba contra aquel cristal y lo único que sentía era dolor.

Pronto, el lucio dejaría de intentar cazar siquiera.

Una vez que había desistido, los investigadores retiraron el cristal que dividía la pecera y le separaba de todos aquellos peces. Pero él, para entonces, había llegado a creer que era imposible comer peces, y a pesar de nadar junto a ellos, ni siquiera intentó abrir la boca para comer. Porque en su cerebro se había implantado una sensación de dolor cada vez que lo intentaba, y la creencia de que de esa manera no podría nunca comer.

De lo que el Lucio no se dio cuenta es de que él seguía actuando como si las condiciones en aquella pecera fueran las mismas, cuando en realidad, se habían producido ciertos cambios que quizá hubieran hecho posible que en el presente los mismos actos pudieran dar lugar a resultados diferentes. Pero el lucio no solo no lo intentó una vez más, sino que finalmente se dejó morir de hambre.

El ser humano, como aquel lucio, presenta una serie de conductas y pensamientos que en infinidad de ocasiones se establecen en base a experiencias pasadas. Nuestro miedo al cambio, o el miedo a salir de nuestras zonas de confort, nos impide tomar decisiones coherentes y nos aferramos a la imposibilidad de gran número de cosas, sólo por el hecho de que en el pasado los resultados hayan sido negativos en esos ámbitos, sin ni siquiera haber constatado que las condiciones que se dan, puedan o no ser las mismas que se dieran entonces.

Hoy en día, el hecho de que ciertas creencias, la mayor parte de las veces equivocadas, se arraiguen en nuestro cerebro y no seamos capaces de hacerles frente porque la historia nos hace creer que son imposibles, se conoce como el Síndrome del Lucio.

15 jun. 2015

ZU

A piece of monologue [from ''Beckett on film'']



A Piece of Monologue

by Samuel Beckett


Birth was the death of him. Again. Words are few. Dying too. Birth was the death of him. Ghastly grinning ever since. Up at the lid to come. In cradle and crib. At suck first fiasco. With the first totters. From mammy to nanny and back. All the way. Bandied back and forth. So ghastly grinning on. From funeral to funeral. To now. This night. Two and a half billion seconds. Again. Two and a half billion seconds. Hard to believe so few. From funeral to funeral. Funerals of ... he all but said of loved ones. Thirty thousand nights. Hard to believe so few. Born dead of night. Sun long sunk behind the larches. New needles turning green. In the room dark gaining. Till faint light from standard lamp. Wick turned low. And now. This night. Up at nightfall. Every nightfall. Faint light in room. Whence unknown. None from window. No. Next to none. No such thing as none. Gropes to window and stares out. Stands there staring out. Stock still staring out. Nothing stirring in that black vast. Gropes back in the end to where the lamp is standing. Was standing. When last went out. Loose matches in right-hand pocket. Strikes one on his buttock the way his father taught him. Takes off milk white globe and sets it down. Match goes out. Strikes a second as before. Takes off chimney. Smoke-clouded. Holds it in left hand. Match goes out. Strikes a third as before and sets it to wick. Puts back chimney. Match goes out. Puts back globe. Turns wick low. Backs away to edge of light and turns to face east. Blank wall. So nightly. Up. Socks. Nightgown. Window. Lamp. Backs away to edge of light and stands facing blank wall. Covered with pictures once. Pictures of ... he all but said of loved ones. Unframed. Unglazed. Pinned to wall with drawing-pins. All shapes and sizes. Down one after another. Gone. Torn to shreds and scattered. Strewn all over the floor. Not at one sweep. No sudden fit of ... no word. Ripped from the wall and torn to shreds one by one. Over the years. Years of nights. Nothing on the wall now but the pins. Not all. Some out with the wrench. Some still pinning a shred. So stands there facing blank wall. Dying on. No more no less. No. Less. Less to die. Ever less. Like light at nightfall. Stands there facing east. Blank pinpocked surface once white in shadow. Could once name them all. There was father. That grey void. There mother. That other. There together. Smiling. Wedding day. There all three. That grey blot. There alone. He alone. So on. Not now. Forgotten. All gone so long. Gone. Ripped off and torn to shreds. Scattered all over the floor. Swept out of the way under the bed and left. Thousand shreds under the bed with the dust and spiders. All the ... he all but said the loved ones. Stands there facing the wall staring beyond. Nothing there either. Nothing stirring there either. Nothing stirring anywhere. Nothing to be seen anywhere. Nothing to be heard anywhere. Room once full of sounds. Faint sounds. Whence unknown. Fewer and fainter as time wore on. Nights wore on. None now. No. No such thing as none. Rain some nights still slant against the panes. Or dropping gentle on the place beneath. Even now. Lamp smoking through wick turned low. Strange. Faint smoke issuing through vent in globe. Low ceiling stained by night after night of this. Dark shapeless blot on surface elsewhere white. Once white. Stands facing wall after the various motions described. That is up at nightfall and into gown and socks. No. In them already. In them all night. All day. All day and night. Up at nightfall in gown and socks and after a moment to get his bearings gropes to window. Faint light in room. Unutterably faint. Whence unknown. Stands stock still staring out. Into black vast. Nothing there. Nothing stirring. That he can see. Hear. Dwells thus as if unable to move again. Turns in the end and enough will left to move again. Turns in the end and gropes to where he knows the lamp is standing. Thinks he knows. Was last standing. When last went out. Match one is described for globe. Two for chimney. Three for wick. Chimney and globe back on. Turns wick low. Backs away to edge of light and turns to face wall. East. Still as the lamp by his side. Gown and socks white to take faint light. Once white. Hair white to take faint light. Foot of pallet just visible edge of frame. Once white to take faint light. Stands there staring beyond. Nothing. Empty dark. Till first word always the same. Night after night the same. Birth. Then slow fade up of a faint form. Out of the dark. A window. Looking west. Sun long sunk behind the larches. Light dying. Soon none left to die. No. No such thing as no light. Starless moonless heaven. Dies on to dawn and never dies. There in the dark that window. Night slowly falling. Eyes to the small pane glaze at that first night. Turn from it in the end to face the darkened room. There in the end slowly a faint hand. Holding aloft a lighted spill. In the light of spill faintly the hand and milkwhite globe. Then second hand. In light of spill. Takes of globe and disappears. Reappears empty. Takes off chimney. Two hands and chimney in light of spill. Spill to wick. Chimney back on. Hand with spill disappears. Second hand disappears. Chimney alone in gloom. Glimmer of brass bedrail. Fade. Birth the death of him. That nevoid smile. Thirty thousand nights. Stands at edge of lamplight staring beyond. Into dark whole again. Window gone. Hands gone. Light gone. Gone. Again and again. Again and again gone. Till dark slowly parts again. Grey light. Rain pelting. Umbrellas round a grave. Seen from above. Streaming black canopies. Black ditch beneath. Rain bubbling in the black mud. Empty for the moment. That place beneath. Which ... he all but said which loved one? Thirty seconds. To add to the two and a half billion odd. Then fade. Dark whole again. Blest dark. No. No such thing as whole. Stands staring beyond half hearing what he's saying. He? The words falling from his mouth. Making do with his mouth. Lights lamp as described. Backs away to edge of light and turns to face wall. Stares beyond into dark. Waits for first word always the same. It gathers in his mouth. Parts lips and thrusts tongue forward. Birth. Parts the dark. Slowly the window. That first night. The room. The spill. The hands. The lamp. The gleam of brass. Fade. Gone. Again and again. Again and again gone. Mouth agape. A cry. Stifled by nasal. Dark parts. Grey light. Rain pelting. Streaming umbrellas. Ditch. Bubbling black mud. Coffin out of frame. Whose? Fade. Gone. Move on to other matters. Try to move on. To other matters. How far from wall? Head almost touching. As at window. Eyes glued to pane staring out. Nothing stirring. Black vast. Stands there stock still staring out as if unable to move again. Or gone the will to move again. Gone. Faint cry in his ear. Mouth agape. Closed with hiss of breath. Lips joined. Feel soft touch of lip on lip. Lip lipping lip. Then parted by cry as before. Where is he now? Back at window staring out. Eyes glued to pane. As if looking his last. Turns away at last and gropes through faint unaccountable light to unseen lamp. White gown moving through that gloom. Once white. Lights and moves to face wall as described. Head almost touching. Stands there staring beyond waiting for first word. It gathers in his mouth. Birth. Parts lips and thrusts tongue between them. Tip of tongue. Feel soft touch of tongue on lips. Of lips on tongue. Fade up in outer dark of window. Stare beyond through rift in dark to other dark. Further dark. Sun long sunk behind the larches. Nothing stirring. Nothing faintly stirring. Stock still eyes glued to pane. As if looking his last. At that first night. Of thirty thousand odd. Turn away in the end to darkened room. Where soon to be. This night to be. Spill. Hands. Lamp. Gleam of brass. Pale globe alone in gloom. Brass bedrail catching light. Thirty seconds. To swell the two and a half billion odd. Fade. Gone. Cry. Snuffed with breath of nostrils. Again and again. Again and again gone. Till whose grave? Which ... he all but said which loved one's? He? Black ditch in pelting rain. Way out through the grey rift in dark. Seen from on high. Streaming canopies. Bubbling black mud. Coffin on its way. Loved one ... he all but said loved one on his way. Her way. Thirty seconds. Fade. Gone. Stands there staring beyond. Into dark whole again. No. No such thing as whole. Head almost touching wall. White hair catching light. White gown. White socks. White foot of pallet edge of frame stage left. Once white. Least ... give and head rests on wall. But no. Stock still head haught staring beyond. Nothing stirring. Faintly stirring. Thirty thousand nights of ghosts beyond. Beyond that black beyond. Ghost light. Ghost nights. Ghost rooms. Ghost graves. Ghost ... he all but said ghost loved ones. Waiting on the rip word. Stands there staring beyond at that black veil lips quivering to half-heard words. Treating of other matters. Trying to treat of other matters. Till half hears there are no other matters. Never were other matters. Never two matters. Never but the one matter. The dead and gone. The dying and the going. From the word go. The word begone. Where else? Unnoticed by him staring beyond. The globe alone. Not the other. The unaccountable. From nowhere. On all sides nowhere. Unutterably faint. The globe alone. Alone gone.

Quanno 'o Sole è Doce

11 jun. 2015

Beginning To End - Samuel Beckett



If Billie Whitelaw was Samuel Beckett’s favorite actress, then MacGowran was his favored actor. The pair met in the bar of a shabby London hotel, an unlikely start to an “intimate alliance” that saw MacGowran collaborate with Beckett on the definitive versions of Waiting for Godot and Endgame. From this, their partnership led to a further legendary collaboration Beginning to End.

8 jun. 2015

...en las desmesuradas galerías del eco...


















Olga Orozco

Tiempo
te has vestido con la piel carcomida del último profeta;
te has gastado la cara hasta la extrema palidez;
te has puesto una corona hecha de espejos rotos y lluviosos jirones,
y salmodias ahora el balbuceo del porvenir con las desenterradas melodías de antaño,
mientras vagas en sombras por tu hambriento escorial, como los reyes locos.

No me importan ya nada todos tus desvaríos de fantasma inconcluso,
miserable anfitrión.
Puedes roer los huesos de las grandes promesas en sus desvencijados catafalcos
o paladear el áspero brebaje que rezuman las decapitaciones.
Y aún no habrá bastante,
hasta que no devores con tu corte goyesca la molienda final.

Nunca se acompasaron nuestros pasos en estos entrecruzados laberintos.
Ni siquiera al comienzo,
cuando me conducías de la mano por el bosque embrujado
y me obligabas a correr sin aliento detrás de aquella torre inalcanzable
o a descubrir siempre la misma almendra con su oscuro sabor de miedo e inocencia.
¡Ah, tu plumaje azul brillando entre las ramas!
No pude embalsamarte ni conseguí extraer tu corazón como una manzana de oro.

Demasiado apremiante,
fuiste después el látigo que azuza,
el cochero imperial arrollándome entre las patas de sus bestias.
Demasiado moroso,
me condenaste a ser el rehén ignorado,
la víctima sepultada hasta los hombros entre siglos de arena.

Hemos luchado a veces cuerpo a cuerpo.
Nos hemos disputado como fieras cada porción de amor,
cada pacto firmado con la tinta que fraguas en alguna instantánea eternidad,
cada rostro esculpido en la inconstancia de las nubes viajeras,
cada casa erigida en la corriente que no vuelve.
Lograste arrebatarme uno por uno esos desmenuzados fragmentos de mis templos.

No vacíes la bolsa.
No exhibas tus trofeos.
No relates de nuevo tus hazañas de vergonzoso gladiador en las desmesuradas galerías del eco.

Tampoco yo te concedí una tregua.
Violé tus estatutos.
Forcé tus cerraduras y subí a los graneros que denominan porvenir.
Hice una sola hoguera con todas tus edades.
Te volví del revés igual que a un maleficio que se quiebra,
o mezclé tus recintos como en un anagrama cuyas letras truecan el orden y cambian el sentido.
Te condensé hasta el punto de una burbuja inmóvil,
opaca, prisionera en mis vidriosos cielos,
Estiré tu piel seca en leguas de memoria,
hasta que la horadaron poco a poco los pálidos agujeros del olvido.
Algún golpe de dados te hizo vacilar sobre el vacío inmenso entre dos horas.

Hemos llegado lejos en este juego atroz, acorralándonos el alma.
Sé que no habrá descanso,
y no me tientas, no, con dejarme invadir por la plácida sombra de los vegetales centenarios,
aunque de nada me valga estar en guardia,
aunque al final de todo esté de pie, recibiendo tu paga,
el mezquino soborno que acuñan en tu honor las roncas maquinarias de la muerte,
mercenario.

Y no escribas entonces en las fronteras blancas “nunca más”
con tu mano ignorante,
como si fueras algún dios de Dios,
un guardián anterior, el amo de ti mismo en otro tú
que colma las tinieblas.
Tal vez seas apenas la sombra más infiel de alguno de sus perros.

3 jun. 2015

El trabajo


El trabajo es, por encima de todo, una actividad en la cual la actitud presente está subordinada al resultado ulterior; en suma, hay en el trabajo una subordinación del hombre al resultado que busca.

Georges Bataille