Some Nobel's Novels

A week and Picture: It’s a tree. Ooooh. I really must tell you that one of my crappiest stories was based on this kind of tree, and that because of it I sense I was given a very innocent pity. I most certainly hate being pitied.

Location: Study - Wish incense would take me somewhere else - passive panicking

Feeling: blank

Listening to: Cafe Tacuba - Puntos Cardinales

Oh give it a break, I just don't see usefulness in it, its nothing but good for nothing crap! There was no pleasure, no experience, if you fail it, then, who cares a fuck?! Let it die, and hopefully my pity will have him speaking of Bach again.

I hate subtle revelations. They leave me doubting in a mental crossroads. Ever have I known of a vocation of mine, but I just can't find it. Its like that other sock you lost in the washing machine, it just vanishes, just to appear in the most unusual of places. The first vocation I ever granted to meself was that of a diplomat. I've always been a good arbiter, solving conflicts was a plus and still is in my life. Then came writing. I liked it, and well being young and all, I noticed I could make a living out of it, nice. But, when you start creating a writer from scrap, with books as disdainful as a Code from a marvelous pseudo-inventor and painter, or a series about a teenager with issues whose surname reminds me of Maria Juana [We get along well, she and me, but I just don't like her (Right now you are thinking of either the bugging you're gonna give me or a conversation that I had with myself weeks ago)]. Writing is tough for me, I have potential, but as I am human, I can be weak of mind. Jealousy? But of course. I actually find satisfaction in admitting these things. I have a very lousy and even terrible writing vocation. My writing is shit. I look at whatever I write and realize I am no better than your curious amateur. Things to save for the future will be my forgotten past? Of course, I don't consider it a total (But partial yes) waste of time. Some lost verses and only two stories are the only things of which I'm proud of. How do I know? Because I read them and notice I like them, that they indeed let me see my vocation. Anyways, why am I writing this? Because I think I know how to find my vocation. It so happens that of all the people that can come across this humble blog, my mother found it. She was quite amazed, and I just felt flattered. Then she told me something quite interesting, characteristic of my mother's seemingly eternal wisdom. She asked if I wrote for others or for my self. And I realized, i write for others. Those exceptional pieces of literature, I wrote them for me. Not intended to be seen by any others, well, except for one, which was dedicated for somebody, but that's another story. So, I must write for myself. I don't have that time right now, but I promise I'll have something by next sunday, let it be a poem, story or even a chapter. Good luck.

Hold on, does that mean I never had writer's block? Oh forget about it.

Book fair has finally begun, and although I think I mentioned some books I wanted to buy some 10 entries ago, but I can't remember and I don't want to look. I will buy 3 books (The shortage gets the best of me) One will be a Taschen art book, Edward Hopper to be precise. The other two will be novels by Nobels. Hehe...This year’s invitée is Japan, so I'll buy a book by Yasunari Kawabata called The Old Capital. Why? First, because it was the most attractive synopsis, and secondly, I just didn't like the thrashing and spoiled style of Kenzaburo Ōe, even if he’s, let's say, closer. The other Novel must be one by a Spanish speaking author, and must be picked very well, as in reading the first five pages or so. In past fairs, I bought a book based on the title and the premise described on the back cover. So it ended in books that I have christened "quixotic", because like El Quijote, I won't read'em until well entered my life. Say for example, The Portrait of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde. Too much said in so few time. In a minute of real time in the book, Widle makes you process more information that some "Y" drones have ever processed at once, system overload dude, but I must admit its quite beautiful writing (for someone I am scared to meet). Rayuela, by Julio Cortázar. It doesn't move. The first chapter spans around for some 10 pages, but in book time, no more than 15 minutes pass. I like the book to be a bit active. And then there's a book I did read, called The Egyptologist, that I read with a massive amount of effort. It took me 9 months to read it, 9 months! I read slowly, and man was that book slow and heavy. So yeah, I have to pick my books correctly, otherwise, its paper tediousness.

I have mini vacations, a nice time to relax and write before gathering breath, for the next great plunge begins.

Sharkman, signing off.

P.S: You, the emo/japanese geek/singer, your nickname is now "Flying Deustchman".