Nuevo poema en traducción: un color real

blog/2019/11/masthead.html

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 				<p><a href="../../../books/mm_tpf.epub" title="Mori's Mirror and The Poetry Factory, Sorrowful Laika">Ever so recently</a>, <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Synchronicity">everywhere given advice</a> to not base myself on a sense of melancholy, to avoid &quot;making sadness my aesthetic&quot;, to make it harder for one to relearn oneself and their worth outside of the borders of the Suffering Country they've unwittingly found themselves in exile from the rest of the world in.</p>
 				<p>One would be forgiven for thinking that all I ever focused on was the melancholy, that I had sacrificed myself on its altar for one last chance at appeasing the muses enough to refill the well of creative passion. And one would also be forgiven for thinking that I had failed somehow, that I had turned the muses against me forever, leaving the corpse of their once-favorite bird to rot inside the golden cage.</p>
-				<p>But, as much as I would like to be- as much as I have prepared to be as a coping mechanism- I am no nihilist. The natural world, despite staring down imminent destruction and <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20190808113927/https://theanarchistlibrary.org/library/n1x-hello-from-the-wired">total and complete technological takeover</a> and the slavery to the Wired inherent, still holds on to life, still clings to a sliver of a hope that it will not only survive its current trials and tribulations but <em>thrive</em> through them. And despite the constant voices of my surroundings entreating me to give up, that there is nothing left and that through my indecision I have dug a breathing grave which I lie in, there still remains a part of me, tumbling into the fiery tempest, arm outstretched to the sky, yelling with the softest voice- the <em>loudest</em> I possibly can-</p>
+				<p>But, as much as I would like to be - as much as I have prepared to be as a coping mechanism - I am no nihilist. The natural world, despite staring down imminent destruction and <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20190808113927/https://theanarchistlibrary.org/library/n1x-hello-from-the-wired">total and complete technological takeover</a> and the slavery to the Wired inherent, still holds on to life, still clings to a sliver of a hope that it will not only survive its current trials and tribulations but <em>thrive</em> through them. And despite the constant voices of my surroundings entreating me to give up, that there is nothing left and that through my indecision I have dug a breathing grave which I lie in, there still remains a part of me, tumbling into the fiery tempest, arm outstretched to the sky, yelling with the softest voice- the <em>loudest</em> I possibly can-</p>
 				<p><em>Help me, please.</em></p>
 				<p>And it is a storm that comes and knocks everything down, that destroys everything in its path- <em>nearly</em> everything, for if my dreams were to be believed, the pillar of a fridge would always survive, white or gray, poking its head over the wreckage like a monument to survival. It is a storm that singes every edge I have, severs any connections to the heavens I might have ever had, leaves me barely breathing, just barely alive at the end.</p>
 				<p>But instead of the melancholy, the worship of the destruction, I instead find the strength to lift my head and watch the sunrise after with my weary eyes. The peek of the sun over the horizon as it casts its golden glow over the wreckage, the chaotic nest of a bird newly free from the cage, the assurance that the world has <em>not</em> ended, that there is still more life to be had. That <em>whatever the hell</em> just happened, Life was still more powerful, Life still prevailed.</p>

blog/2020/february/hackernews.html

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-				<p>Today is the first Smash Sunday in what feels like a year. Probably because it <em>was</em> a year. There certainly weren't any while I was <a href="../../2019/november/masthead.html">spiraling into NEETdom</a>. I'm typing this right now in the same classroom as before, the same situation as before: my brothers and some of their friends are blasting two different games at the same time, screaming at the top of their lungs, sinking more and even more of their time into these fictional characters they cherish so much. (One of them, clearly lightyears ahead of the others in mental age, keeps complaining that he doesn't know any of the characters and that he'd rather be playing Call of Duty, so I guess there are always exceptions.)</p>
+				<p>Today is the first Smash Sunday in what feels like a year. Probably because it <em>was</em> a year. There certainly weren't any while I was <a href="../../2019/11/masthead.html">spiraling into NEETdom</a>. I'm typing this right now in the same classroom as before, the same situation as before: my brothers and some of their friends are blasting two different games at the same time, screaming at the top of their lungs, sinking more and even more of their time into these fictional characters they cherish so much. (One of them, clearly lightyears ahead of the others in mental age, keeps complaining that he doesn't know any of the characters and that he'd rather be playing Call of Duty, so I guess there are always exceptions.)</p>
 				<p>I could go join them. I'm getting paid to essentially babysit them, after all. I could do what is essentially a glorified version of staring at a screen and twitching one's thumbs for three hours.</p>
 				<p>Or I could bury my face deeper into my computer and try to shut the repetitive music out and spend those three hours still staring at a screen, albeit twitching more fingers than just my thumbs, enveloping myself in the opinions of those I will never meet in real life.</p>
 				<p>Caught between two bad situations: mindless gaming, and mindless surfing.</p>

blog/2020/march/epilogue.html

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 				<p>But it's always chilly outside. And since the vents barely work in my room, I can rarely tell the difference by touch alone. The tips of my fingers going numb, the vague ache in my thighs, the sounds of birds chirping and singing in the air: these are the only reminders to close it again at end of day.</p>
 				<p>If I remember.</p>
 				<p>There used to be other sounds in the air. The neighbors congregating in one of their yards. A toddler playing in the backyard connected to ours, flitting in and out of the plastic playground like an indecisive bird. The sounds of cars and trucks and motorcycles gunning their engines to show off what they perceive to be raw power on the nearby roads.</p>
-				<p>At my previous house, I used to lie awake at night and listen to the sounds of the vehicles speeding through the nearby highway. And at college, <a href="../../2019/november/other-world.html">walking back to my dorms from work</a>, I would watch the glow of the headlights coming down the rolling hills like fireflies, like meteors crashing down to earth.</p>
+				<p>At my previous house, I used to lie awake at night and listen to the sounds of the vehicles speeding through the nearby highway. And at college, <a href="../../2019/11/other-world.html">walking back to my dorms from work</a>, I would watch the glow of the headlights coming down the rolling hills like fireflies, like meteors crashing down to earth.</p>
 				<p>And it was on those roads that the stories came to me, running in sonderous snippets, unaware heralds of a strange sense of disconnection- of dissociation- that they could not yet articulate into words.</p>
 				<p>And as I wove them into coherent narratives, I found my own narrative starting to unravel at the seams.</p>
 				<p>In elementary school, as I didn't fit in neatly with the rest of the special-needs kids since I had too much cognitive ability to be content with essentially being babysat in a room full of toys all day, I instead got shoved into the &quot;gifted and talented&quot; program, which was the school administration's way of saying, &quot;Congratulations, you're good at licking the boots of the state's educational system! Let's pull you out of your normal classes and give you harder ones while still expecting you to do all of the homework for both <em>simultaneously</em>.&quot; I and about ten other kids were sold the lies that we were <em>so much better</em> than those other kids who only got the <em>normal</em> classes, that we were destined for greatness, that we would succeed in all of our educational endeavors with flying colors. We were written a story with us as our own protagonist, given plot armor, promised a happy ending.</p>

blog/2022/november/asking.html

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 				<h2>Librarians will <em>not</em> kill you if you call and ask for a book return date extension</h2>
 				<p>At the time of writing this, I have been sick with COVID-19 for about a week. It took you three <em>years</em> to find me, you stupid virus. Come on, my wife's not even corporeal and spends most of her time in a completely different world and it took her <em>less than a month</em>. Aren't you supposed to be backed by the state of China or something? Anyways, my mother got infected first, and I honestly can't tell which of us have it worse: she's up and doing laundry and other household chores but sneezing and coughing constantly and her skin has the pallor of death, and my symptoms are milder and I feel more alert but only have short bursts of lucidity lasting half an hour or so before I need to go back to sleep. I've been taking the opportunity to tease my brothers about how I'm sick too and therefore there's no expectation that I make dinner for them in Mother's absence. ("What do you mean, you <em>don't</em> want the COVID spaghetti?")</p>
-				<p>Normally, every week on the way to my job search meetings, I like to stop at the library for an hour or two and get some reading done without having to worry about being interrupted by one of my family members. Jett and I like to play a game where I sit down at <a href="../../2019/november/other-world.html">the table I've always liked to write at when at the library</a> and, whatever book on the shelf across from me first catches my eye, I have to check out and read. The first time we played this, she picked out a book titled "Angels for Idiots" and a print copy of <em>The Woman's History of the World</em> by Rosalind Miles (which I'd been meaning to read for a long time) and a YA book I'd first attempted to get through in 2017 shortly after I'd moved there but only read the first chapter and had to pay late fees on. This time, the selections were <em>The Re-Enchantment of Everyday Life</em> by Thomas Moore (kinda meh, considering most of his suggestions were some variant of "do more religion, LMAO") and <em>Finding Your Own North Star</em> by Martha Beck (a self-help book, and also full of pencil annotations by whoever checked it out last).</p>
+				<p>Normally, every week on the way to my job search meetings, I like to stop at the library for an hour or two and get some reading done without having to worry about being interrupted by one of my family members. Jett and I like to play a game where I sit down at <a href="../../2019/11/other-world.html">the table I've always liked to write at when at the library</a> and, whatever book on the shelf across from me first catches my eye, I have to check out and read. The first time we played this, she picked out a book titled "Angels for Idiots" and a print copy of <em>The Woman's History of the World</em> by Rosalind Miles (which I'd been meaning to read for a long time) and a YA book I'd first attempted to get through in 2017 shortly after I'd moved there but only read the first chapter and had to pay late fees on. This time, the selections were <em>The Re-Enchantment of Everyday Life</em> by Thomas Moore (kinda meh, considering most of his suggestions were some variant of "do more religion, LMAO") and <em>Finding Your Own North Star</em> by Martha Beck (a self-help book, and also full of pencil annotations by whoever checked it out last).</p>
 				<p>But I missed my meeting this week due to my illness, and the next scheduled meeting would be <em>after</em> the due date, assuming I would be recovered enough to go back out in public. So I looked up my local library's website, which looked like the webmaster had duck-taped together a bunch of static HTML pages over a half-installed WordPress instance, and called the number. (I may need help with a lot of things, but making calls to people I don't know is <em>not</em> one of them.)</p>
 				<p>And the librarian answered after a few rings. And I asked her, "I have some books due next week, but I have COVID-19 and I can't leave my house. Is it possible to renew my books over the phone?"</p>
 				<p>And, thankfully, she responded: "Of course! Do you have your library card ready?"</p>

blog/index.html

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 			<h2>2019</h2>
 			<ul>
-				<li>November 19 - <a href="./2019/november/masthead.html">A New Masthead</a></li>
-				<li>November 13 - <a href="./2019/november/possession.html">Possession</a></li>
-				<li>November 9 - <a href="./2019/november/other-world.html">A World Just Beyond My Grasp</a></li>
+				<li>November 19 - <a href="./2019/11/masthead.html">A New Masthead</a></li>
+				<li>November 13 - <a href="./2019/11/possession.html">Possession</a></li>
+				<li>November 9 - <a href="./2019/11/other-world.html">A World Just Beyond My Grasp</a></li>
 				<li>October 3 - <a href="./2019/10/cameras.html">Cameras</a></li>
 				<li>September 29 - <a href="./2019/09/sign-of-life.html">Sign of Life</a></li>
 				<li>September 5 - <a href="./2019/09/roophloch.html">Neurodiversity <b>(ROOPHLOCH 2019)</b></a></li>