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Nuevo poema en traducción: un color real

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<h1>A New Masthead</h1>
<p>published: 2019-11-19</p>
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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><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>
<p>And that is what I always stretch my hands out for, always yearn to grasp. The sudden paradoxical feelings of fragility and strength together. A brand new world with none of the trappings of the old. And once the bird's wings heal, they'll flap once, twice, and then back into the air where the beast belongs.</p>
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<title>A World Just Beyond My Grasp - Archive - MayVaneDay Studios</title>
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<h1>A World Just Beyond My Grasp</h1>
<p>published: 2019-11-09</p>
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<p>Late this morning, I ran away from home with little more than my purse and what I could shove into my backpack. I left behind my stash of music (which I kept forgetting to copy to my new laptop from my broken one) and the bulk of my video game collection and nearly all my clothes, all the things I have spent nineteen years collecting and hoarding that weren't washed away in the flood. All of my money, save the little cash that remains in my purse, is in the hands of my parents.</p>
<p>None of it feels real. My brain feels like, at any moment, I'll be back at home, sitting on my bed, confined in my room like I've been for the past five months. Slowly going crazy, losing touch with the outside world, with the <em>real</em> world. Constantly being entreated to give myself to the Spectacle, to reduce the depth of my mind to merely wondering what the next meal is and what game I'll waste the evening playing: to whatever is easiest for my jailers to manage.</p>
<p>I'm finally outside <a href="../../../poetry/g/the-golden-cage.txt">the golden cage</a>, and the world outside that I'd managed to convince myself wasn't real <em>is</em> real, and it's so wide and yet so restricting all at once.</p>
<p>Managed to convince <em>most</em> of myself, for some spark of <a href="../../../poetry/f/firebrand.txt">whatever the hell</a> I felt past January <a href="../09/sign-of-life.html">still burns within</a>.</p>
<p>And whatever that spark is must have been enough, for I bit the bullet and walked for an hour to the local library. I jayran across busy highways. I passed by the trail on which I had a mental breakdown one day in gym class, abusive gym teacher yelling at me to go faster, even though my legs were stone and my bike was two creaks away from collapsing, so close to home and yet so far away, always so far away. I took the long way, the way my phone told me to go, and then realized upon seeing one of the local hotels that there was a shortcut waiting for me all along.</p>
<p>There are two little kids running around the library. A slightly older girl is brave enough to walk around in public with a bunny-ears headband and an unironic Minions jacket. At the table next to mine is an overweight man with a Vietnam Veteran hat on gambling away his money on a shitty Chromebook that looks like it was stolen from the high school. Coughs boom from the downstairs bathroom as if they were heralds of an oncoming earthquake, even though we don't get earthquakes here in God's Asscrack, Minnesota.</p>
<p>On the walk home from college, late at night long after the sun had gone to sleep, passing by the chapel on the way to the dorms. I turn to my left, and I see the highway sloping down the hill. A million glittering lights, drivers that I will never meet, whose paths will only cross mine in this one sliver of time and then never again. And framing the road on both sides is a forest that spans as far as the eye can see. A veritable force field- a modern moat to protect the campus from the outside world.</p>
<p>The wind spoke to me. Memories of <a href="../../../books/mm_tpf.epub" title="Mori's Mirror and The Poetry Factory, Sorrowful Laika">a past life</a>, messengers shouting of a future one just on the horizon.</p>
<p>I stood at the uncharted edge of the frontier to a secret world, a new world, a free world. I could taste it on the frost on my lips, feel it in the way my lungs constricted and screamed for air that wasn't full of winter's knives, in the way the wind fluttered through my unzipped coat.</p>
<p>At that moment, I could have turned my back on everything and disappeared under cover of darkness.</p>
<p>But I didn't. I returned to my dorm and fell asleep under warm covers. And, come morning, I went to my classes just as I was expected to.</p>
<p>Intellectually, I know I could turn my back on the golden cage now and never return home. I'm of the legal age: my jailers couldn't legally force me to return. I can stretch my fingers out and feel the borders between the golden cage's false conception of &quot;world&quot; and the secret world growing thin. I could rip the Wizard's curtains to shreds and watch as everything I worried about in the cage becomes <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20200407184012/https://crimethinc.com/2000/09/11/there-is-a-secret-world-concealed-within-this-one">trivial and irrelevant and ridiculous</a> against the sheer mass of Life itself.</p>
<p>I would give up everything not in that backpack for a one-way ticket to that world in a heartbeat.</p>
<p>But what hurts more than the winter frost, what hurts more than the feeling of sweat in every crack in my skin taunting me closer to sensory overload- is that I <em>know</em> <a href="../../../books/mm_tpf.epub" title="Mori's Mirror and The Poetry Factory, tell Rufi I'm not coming home.">my fingers will scab over</a>, and I will lose the sacred touch of a world where I am my own, and I will return to the golden cage at end of day. I will return to a world where the Spectacle is king, where my body is not my own, trading my dignity for one more day of a warm bed at night.</p>
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<h1>Possession</h1>
<p>published: 2019-11-13</p>
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<p>Not the demonic kind, mind you- but the kind that occurs when you own something, when something is in your <em>possession</em>. Whether tangible or digital, if I can hold it in my hands in some form, theoretically it is <em>mine</em>.</p>
<p>This morning, right after breakfast, my mom entreated me to go sorting through another one of the bins we <em>still</em> haven't completely unpacked from our move almost three years ago. Lots of assorted doodads I'd forgotten about, purses that went directly into the donate pile, crafts that accepted their demise in the bottom of the new box to send to storage. A crumpled and stained letter from my childhood, from a boy that I used to know, instantly opened without even an opportunity to express my discomfort with her going through my correspondence.</p>
<p>Mom unwraps an oblong object in a dirty and faded pillowcase. She immediately tosses the pillowcase over her shoulder, landing at the base of the laundry room door. The object, it turns out, is a ceramic statuette of a girl who could be mistaken for Strawberry Shortcake's blue twin separated at birth.</p>
<p>"Keep or donate?" she asks me.</p>
<p>I shrug my shoulders. More baby stuff from a decade ago, back when I would have happily let Mom decorate my room however she pleased. "Donate."</p>
<p>"No, we're keeping this," she immediately chirps back, her voice now tinged with a hint of annoyance that my tastes in decor have changed. "This belonged to my grandmother. It's going straight to the hutch."</p>
<p>And she sets the object aside, neither in the packing box nor in the donate pile.</p>
<p>It makes no sense. Presumably she gave the statuette to <em>me</em>, and she attributes the object to <em>my</em> pile of unpacked boxes, so it should be <em>my</em> possession to do with or dispose of as I please- and yet, the moment I did something she didn't like to it, she took it back anyway. So was it never mine to begin with? Just imposed on me, my fault for not putting it in my room and thus contributing to the pile of boxes in what should be the second living room?</p>
<p>If it had been up to me, everything would have either gone to donation or been sold off. <a href="./other-world.html">I already have all the possessions I want.</a></p>
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<p>My phone, even though it is in my possession as it sits on the desk next to me, is not my <em>possession</em>.</p>
<p>I can hold it in my hand, but I cannot use it any way I please: <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20200408153839/https://www.reddit.com/r/androidroot/comments/99zost/why_is_the_usa_version_of_the_samsung_galaxy_s9s9/">the bootloader is locked</a>, and thus it is unrootable. And unlike the phones I've had in the past, where there was only a gentle reminder that a new software update was available and said reminder could be disabled by freezing the system update app, my phone will <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20200408153909/https://www.theandroidsoul.com/samsung-will-force-you-to-download-updates-after-postponing-for-a-maximum-of-10-times/">force an update after denying it for too long</a>.</p>
<p>And I've fantasized about downgrading to a flip phone for a long time, both for the privacy benefits of not dealing with Apple's or Google's incessant tracking baked into the core of the phone, and for the inability to install "modern" apps staving off <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20200408153941/https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2017/dec/23/smartphone-vs-flip-phone">phone addiction</a>. But my parents would never allow me to do so, not even if I asked in the most polite manner possible, for they've "spent too much money on it" in true <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20200408154027/https://youarenotsosmart.com/2011/03/25/the-sunk-cost-fallacy/">sunk-cost</a> fashion, even though I never wanted a smartphone in the first place. I could buy a cheap one off eBay behind their backs, but I wouldn't be allowed to connect it to the phone plan, so it would sit useless without phone service to make it functional.</p>
<p>And one day, when I make my break and run free and get a place to call all my own, my phone will <em>still</em> not be my own, for it's locked into the Verizon network. My parents would still be within their "rights" to track the phone's location, or remotely lock it or wipe it and make it useless. I wouldn't be able to transfer it to a carrier of my choice, one with a far more cheaper monthly bill.</p>
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<p>And am <em>I myself</em> even my own possession?</p>
<p>Do I own my emotions? For even the slighest amount of displeasure immediately gets labeled as boiling rage, an incongruent response to one's surroundings- even though if <em>you</em> were eating a meal in silence, and then someone waltzed in blasting shitty music through the phone in their back pocket, you'd be a little silently annoyed too.</p>
<blockquote>
<a href="../../../books.html#tdom" title="The Duality of Mankind, chapter 14">"I have many emotions," Lex cut in, rolling his eyes, one hand pushing on the bathroom door to keep it open. "Irritated, upset, moody, fatigued, annoyed, pissed, disgruntled, invalidated. To call them all 'grumpy' would be a disservice to the English language and an insult to myself."</a>
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<p>Do I own my movements? For everywhere I go, I have to carry the phone around so I can be "reached" in case of emergency, even though my parents, and their parents, and their parents before them were allowed to explore without the watchful eye of technology over them at all times. And everywhere I go, I must always keep my parents informed of- the rare moments when I am allowed to wander without the fear of a report afterward, it is only because they failed to ask or simply never noticed in the first place.</p>
<p>Do I own my body? For I <em>never</em> consent to having my photo taken, much less posted on Facebook, and yet both of my parents get indignant when I demand that they stop feeding my facial data to Facebook. I motion to opt out of holiday photos, knowing that they'll get plastered everywhere on the internet, and then my parents threaten to take away everything that matters to me in response- and even if they <em>did</em>, they'd still force me into the picture. Always a smiling doll for others' visual pleasure, never my own. And then they joke about mounting cameras everywhere to catch who leaves empty buckets of ice cream in the freezers or wiretaps in my room to listen in on the few words I utter in a former safe place and even going so far to remove all the bedroom doors when we don't come to dinner as quickly as they'd like (even though, most of the time, I genuinely didn't hear them yell because I was listening to music), and I scream that <em>I do not consent</em> to the invasion of privacy and that I'm moving out given the first opportunity, and they simply laugh.</p>
<p>They laugh and proclaim that I cannot afford to move out, that I will never be able to afford to move out. There is no escape from the golden cage. There is simply nothing to be done for money in this dead town, save a janitor position that won't be enough to cover rent (not for a long while, anyway). And I cannot flee to the city of my grandmother, or into the arms of a well-meaning but disconscious-of-privacy-or-anything-else-that-I-care-about friend- they simply won't allow it. They'd just leverage the law to capture me and bring me back to the golden cage once again.</p>
<p>They laugh, for, in their eyes, I am their possession.</p>
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