I’m Sick

October 20, 2009 at 8:50 pm (gay) (, , )

I don’t dream anymore. I don’t smoke anymore. I don’t even have a story anymore.
I am filthy without you, I am ugly without you.
Like an orphan in her room; I don’t feel like living my life anymore.
My life stops when you leave. I no longer have a life, even my bed transforms into a sort of platform when you leave.
I am sick, completely sick. Like when my mom went out every night, leaving me alone with my despair.
I am sick, perfectly sick. I do not know when you come, you leave and I don’t know to where.
Soon it will have been two years that you have not given a shit! I cling to you like a rock, like a sin.
I am tired and exhausted of pretending to be happy when people are around.
I drink every night, but all whiskey tastes the same; all the boats hang your flag.
I don’t know where to go anymore, you’re everywhere.
I am sick, completely sick! I pour my all into you and when you sleep, I’m like a dead bird.
I’m sick, perfectly sick; you deprived me of my song and took away my words.
Though I had talent before you! This love is killing me.
If it continues I will die alone, next to my radio, listening to my own voice that will sing that I am sick, completely sick! Like when my mom went out every night, leaving me with my despair. I am sick, and that’s it I’m sick!
You deprived me of my song, you took from me my words and my heart is completely sick.
Surrounded by barricades, you hear I’m sick!!

I’ve found this song a few weeks ago, and I think it’s amazing.
I’ve felt like this before, and I’m pretty sure some of you have felt like this too.


Permalink 5 Comments

The Gathering – Miniature

October 8, 2009 at 10:43 pm (being better, dreams, know me, music) (, , )

This are the lyrics for Miniature, my favorite The Gathering song

I know the stories
Of undersea lights
It all seems so clear to me
From this astounding aerial view
I start to wonder
More about you
And your dreams
I’ll follow each step you take
As I want to know your secrets too

Under the shelter of this evening sky
We can dream further than we ever thought aloud
It’s always more simple than it seems

Tell me your story and I’ll tell you mine
You’ll find no more boundaries when you realise that love
Can overpower everything

Tell me your secret and I’ll tell you mine
With every word you’ll see there’s no more need to hide
Our love can overpower everything

I know the secret of the stars with all their beauty and all their light
They just want to feel what we feel

Tell me your story and I’ll tell you mine
Tell me your secret and I’ll tell you mine

I’m very proud, cuz the official site (as you can see) hasn’t released the lyrics so far.
This is all my work 😀

Permalink Leave a Comment

Verses (by Teresa Wilms Montt)

August 25, 2009 at 12:05 am (gay)

Diary Pages

This is my diary.
In its pages becomes fluffier the wide flower of death, dissolving in underground sap and opening the love lotus, with the magic of a strange clear pupil on the horizon.
Its my diary. I’m abruptly naked, rebel against all that it’s stablished, great among the little, little in front of the infinity…
It’s me.

Sentimental Restlessness


The light of the lamp, dimmed by the violet shade, faints upon the table.
Objects take a somnambulistc tone of sickened dream; like if a consumptive hand would have caressed the environment, leaving in it its aristocratic listless.
An ungodly bell repeats the hours and makes me understand that I live, and reminds me also, that I suffer.
I suffer from a rare disease that hurts by doping; heartaches, misenderstood greatness, infinite ideals.
Disease that incites me to live in a different heart, to rest of the rough task of feeling alive inside myself.
Like the thirsty want water, I yearn for my ear listens a voice promising dazzling sweetness to me; I yearn for a children’s hand lays on my eyelits, tired of staying awake, and calms my rebel adventurous spirit.
That’s how I wish to die, like the light of the lamp upon objects, spread in soft and trembly shadows.


Hats give me the impression of chopped and mummified heads, and those colored bridled, seem to me like heads ripped by a brutal hand, which still has a bloody vein attached.
I can never spot a pair of gloves without imagining they are skinf from disecated hands and, on those that are yellow, I see something disgusting that starts to rotten.
I hate the garments left forgotten upon the bed, there are many analogies among then and the dead.
I saw once, in an institution, a crazy dead girl; and it was the same as watching a violet rag threw into a coffin.


Even when in my soul I shelter petty sorrows
my face lights up when I smile…
I curse and it is in such armonic way the gesture of my arms in its painful manner, that we might say they lift from a strange strength…
Oh agonizing century of human vanity! I’ve sown a piece of fertile soil, where you can spread
the first seed destined to the Promised Land.


…you know my tragic devotion to legends
of enchanted princes…
You know that a melodic tune and a soft song made me cry,
and that a word of affection made me slave of another soul, and you know, also,
that all that I’ve dreamt had a heart-rending reality.


Nothing I posses, nothing I leave, nothing I ask.
Naked as I was born, I leave now,
so ignorant of what in the world inhabits.
I suffered, and that’s the only luggage admited by the boat that leads me to oblivion.


I want that in wise escence, Peace descends over me
and floods kindly in freshness my undermined true self.


Ok, that was intense.

I hope you like it!

Permalink 1 Comment

Teresa Wilms Montt, my favorite writer

August 24, 2009 at 11:08 pm (gay)

TERESA WILMS MONTT (Viña del Mar, 1893 – París 1921): She was born in a wealthy family, daughter of Federico Guillermo Wilms Montt and Brieba, and his wife Luz Victoria Montt and Montt. Given the social context of that time, her primary instruction was given to her by governesses and particular teachers. When Teresa turned 17, she got married with Gustavo Balmaceda Valdés. In the following years (1911 y 1913) she gave birht to her daughters, Elisa and Silvia Luz. Almost ritght after the wedding, the problems between Gustavo and Teresa started, mainly due to how much the husband felt agravated by his wife’s personality, who frequently attended to literary gatherings, and followed the anarchist ideals, and freemasonery. Gustavo reacted sheltering himself in the gambling and alcohol; Teresa, on her side, sheltered herself in her friend and Gustavo’s cousin, Vicente Balmaceda Zañartu (whom she will refer on the future at her diaries as Jean). After numerous marital conflicts, moving from one city to another and letters from Vicente Balmaceda addressed to Teresa, Gustavo Balmaceda convened a family trial, which dictaminated her confinement in the convent of Preciosa Sangre, which she entered on October 18th of 1915, and escaped from it on June of 1916 setting off for Buenos Aires, helped by Vicente Huidobro. During her stay in the convent, she started a journal, in which she wrote her feelings about the loss of her daughters, being separated from Vicente Balmaceda and the motivations to her first suicide attempt on March 29th, 1916. In Buenos Aires, she contributed to Nosotros magazines, in which also did contributed Gabriela Mistral and Ángel Cruchaga Santa María, among others. She also published her first work “Inquietudes Sentimentales”, a collection of fifty poems with surrealistic threads, that enojyed an amazing success among the intelectual circles of Buenos Aires society. the same happened to “Los Tres Cantos”, work that explored erotism and spirituality. Two years after this work and after travelling to Barcelona and New York, she came back to Buenos Aires and published “Cuentos para Hombres que Todavía son Niños”. In it she evoked her childhood and some vital experiences, in tales of great originality and fantasy. “En la Inquietud del Mármol” was published in Barcelona and constituted a lyric toned elegy, made of 35 fragments, which central leitmotif was death. Written on first person, she focused her interest on the mediating role of love between life and death. She continued travelling accross Europe, visiting London and Paris, but always being a resident of Madrid. In 1920 she was reunited with her daughters in Paris; but after they were separated she become gravely ill. In these crisis, she consumed a large dose of Veronal, and died on December 24th of 1921. In the last pages of her diary, she wrote: “To die, after feeling everything and being nothing…”.

Permalink 1 Comment

Adrian & I (Short Story)

August 24, 2009 at 9:21 pm (Short story)

With Adrian we lived in downtown. He really makes me laugh. He’s totally convinced he’s a serial killer. “I’m a soul taker” he says, while he swims from one side to the other side on the little goldfish bowl I bought for him. He has been quiet lately, I’ve tried to pet him, but he keeps jumping acrobatically out of water, trying to bite one of my fingertips (he thinks he’s a piranha). Last Sunday I saw him depressed, so I dissolved a Zoloft pill in his water, and I took another two pills myself. We were watching the whole afternoon through the windowpane, humming songs in a different language. The thing is we get very lonely just the both of us, you know.

Permalink 1 Comment

The New York Streets

June 19, 2009 at 9:06 pm (gay) (, , , )


More than a year since I’ve decided not to blog again and here I am.

Tons of changes, most of ’em really good. I’ve been twice to the States so far, and I had a taste of the All-Included American Dream: the American job, the American freedom, the American boy. But, I decided to stay here in my own country. I’ll have here my own boy, my own job and my own freedom.

Ah, I miss though the streets of Manhattan, the rainy and cold days and the walks in the parks. I miss the squirrels (yes, we don’t have squirrels here) and Central Park, and to read a book while having a giant cup of tea on Starbucks.

But while I was there, my heart was still here in Chile. I could have myself totally adapted to the life in NY, working at a cafe, walking down the 7th avenue, having a drink on a Chelsea bar, and shopping veggies at the green market on Union Square. But life is more than just doing stuff, and my life rite now is full and rich. Why changing everything I have for an idea of happiness? I mean, I’ve always wanted to be there. But that’s not necessarily happiness. I’m happy now, here in my apartment with my life.

And that’s something that NY streets can’t offer.

Permalink 2 Comments

My Grandma Told Me… (by Pamela Jiles)

June 19, 2009 at 12:18 am (gay) (, , , , , )

Two ministers of this state paid tribute to the lead brain of dictatorship in Chile, Jaime Guzmán, and The President changed her mind about going at the last minute, but neither she nor any other government advisor did the least effort to remember the 100th and 101st of the most shameful part of Chilean history. Too little, to commemorate a day that shows the cruelty of the powerful against the poor ones in this country of us, and even when the remains of that tragedy are still visible: a pile of torn appart corpses that a lot of people tried to cover with facades.

My grandmother Elena Caffarena had only 5 years when this happened, but she remembered vividly what she saw that Dec 21st of 1907, when more than six thousand workmen and their families arrived after walking miles and miles from different places of The Pampa (nitrate deposits in the northern desert area of Chile), hungry and cold, to the city of Iquique. They demanded insignificant improvements to their appalling life conditions: to have scales where to weigh the meals they received in exchange for their fourteen hours workdays, and schools for their sons obligated to live with them in filthy barracks without the right to education.

The habitants of Iquique -supportive to movement of the Pampinos- housed them at the Santa María School, they brought them water, food and clothes. But the owners of the Nitrate companies refused to hear those minimum requiries, the government declared Iquique under siege, and demanded the working class and their family to go back to the nitrate deposits as soon as posible.

General Roberto Silva Renard, maximum military authority of the Tarapacá region (where Iquique is located), took over the charge on the situation. The O’Higgins regiment’s batallions, the cruiser Esmeralda and other war ships aimed their weapons towards the school. Facing the desproportioned threat from the protectors of our nation, the habitants of Iquique -who couldn’t leave their homes because of the siege- screamed claiming to the officers to at least let the children out. All of the habitants were willing to receive the criatures in danger.

Without paying any attention, General Silva Renard and Colonel Ledesma ordered to shoot when it was fifteen minutes to four of that december afternoon. “To more shots -informed Silva- and then use the machine guns against the comitee in the roof”. The habitants of Iquique witnessed from their own roofs and windows how the soldiers fired against the families.

The highest leaders of the Pampinos -José Briggs and Luis Olea- were in front of the crowd, facing the soldiers, as if they were trying to protect their people. Without running and with a chilean flag waving in the air, teh workers received the first bullets on their chests. Then, numerous women fell in front of the sons and daughters they want to protect. Faced with the impotence of the entire city, once and again the soldiers fired against the civilians gathered in the Santa Maria School. Once and again the survivors raised their flags. Once and again the habitants of Iquique begged to the soldiers to stop the massacre. Untill the silence was made, by killing the nitrate deposits workers, their wives and children.

The United Sates consul informed to the US government the bloodcurling scene: hundreads of corpses piled and torn appart bodies. The Peruvian consul noted: “I went inmediately to the place where these unfortunate events occured, with the 10th Firemen company, who dedicated themselves to recover the few survivors and carry them swiftly to the hospital. There’s a rumour about two sailors that were killed during the military intervention, due to their refusal to fire against the children”. Something similar was suggested by the British consul, who told that all the soldiers who didn’t want to participate on this intervention, were executed the next morning.

Three thousand and six hundread workmen, their wives and children were assassinated by chilean soldiers at the Santa Maria School, days before 1907’s christmas. In the following years, official history denied these facts, ignoring the survivors and erasing all the possible reminders of the massacre ’till today, when the authorities are still indiferent.

But the people from Iquique never forgot the horror that happened in front of their eyes. During the 103 years my grandmother lived, not a single day passed without remembering those who fell with their chileans flags waving. She told the story a thousand times -to her kids, her grandchildren, her greatgrandchildren- “to not let the martyrs of Santa Maria School die twice because of forsake”, she said.

Elena Caffarena did many important things on her long life, started epic battles that place her as the precursor og the femenin participation on chilean politic, and the jurist who got the right to vote as men did. But she always repeated that “if there’s something I’ve ever done that has been worthy, is to be courageous enough to cross the line of soldiers that blocked the school the next day of the massacre. With my sister, and scared to death, we left flowers for the dead children”.

Permalink 1 Comment

Last Wish

February 14, 2008 at 1:38 pm (gay)

The man I was is dead, I promise,
Even I feel sorry for him;
so false, so cruel, so crazy,
so absurd in his living, so grotesque.

He passed away today, but it was for the best.
Let’s remember about him and the few true things he had;
the way he loved his work, his lack of money,
the passion he showed every time he talked about you.

He’s gone, but he parted happy.
Upon his lips he had your name, mixed with the flavor of guilt,
in his eyes, the most quiet landscape and in his mouth his last wish:
to hold you tight once more if ever coming back.

And I, the one who saw his longing for your kisses,
I must wait your return, after months of silence,
and give you the hug I owe you and left the departed behind.

I won’t cry, I’ve already cried all the tears life gave me.
I won’t hesitate, doubts will not exist if I see a small smile on your face.
I won’t keep dreaming, because my greatest dream is becoming real.
And I will come back to life, to reinvent the love I made once for you.

Yes,cause from now on, I will love you for the both of us,
And I confess that I, while he was talking about you…
I confess that I also loved you in silence!


Today I’m very happy.

Well, is Valentine’s Day, so I wrote a poem about love…

Thanks everyone for all the support, all the nice comments. I found that I can write interesting lines, so I will be doing this for a while (it might be annoying, but I know you’ll understand).

Hugs and kisses for everyone!

PD: there’s two of you I’m gonna call today. 😀

Permalink 5 Comments

While people are passing by…

February 5, 2008 at 3:46 am (poem)

While people are passing by,
Have you ever asked yourself who they are?
Why they fight, what they feel, what they do?
Are they the main characters of romantic stories,
are they slaves of a bitter routine,
are they toys of fate or God’s puppets?

While people are passing by,
and walking with them side by side, you feel -as I do-
that you’re not walking between winners and losers,
but you know you’re walking among survivors.
Among survivors of riots because of hunger,
between survivors of wars started during a chess match.

While people are passing by,
you realize you’re walking between nameless guys and girls,
human beings indifferent to you,
Lives we don’t know, and deaths we don’t care.
They’re only deaths; deaths we read about in morning papers,
cold obituaries, faceless names.

While people are passing by
Wouldn’t you like to know their stories? …I would.
I’d like to know about their dreams, learn about their reasons to live, to survive.
I’d like to tell their stories; creating some beautiful moments for them,
giving them happiness.
I think I should start with myself.
I think i should start to tell my own story.
The story of the forsaken lover.
The story of the betrayed friend.
The story of the dreamer that wakes up
in the middle of a storm of black facades.

It’ll be a story of heavens and hells,
of nights of sun and days of full-moon,
of scarred, blackened hearts
and windows that prohibit the sunlight from now on.

Is the replay of the old story,
the same, but with different actors.
The same emotions entwined
and the same collective perversions,
self destructive relationships, ruffled values,
forgotten kids and censored gods.

While people are passing by, now,
I realize I don’t want to tell any stories;
it’s everything, it’s always the same.

Neither I will tell my story.
If you want to know it… imagine it.
Stand up in a corner
and when you see me passing by with the rest of them,
Create a happy ending for me.

Permalink 9 Comments

Through the looking glass…

January 15, 2008 at 11:40 pm (mirror, reflection, to be or not, yearn)

To stare at your own reflection might be one of the most mesmerizing experiences that a human being can experience. The fact of watching what the rest see, what you can’t, what is denied to you from the moment you were born, makes you achieve a different kind of power, in a higher level in the universe of those who (as you are supposed to) can’t reach their own image.
The mirror will help us to understand since we were kids who we are. The image that we reflect in it becomes powerful: it controls our mind.  Finally, we can put a shape to what we only knew by intuition.

In the mirror also, you can find temptation and other kinds of danger. The known fact of shattering one and the sub sequential 7 years of bad luck; or to put one under your pillow to trap in there your nightmares. Girls who followed a white rabbit and they can see the world by the other side; trapped, yet still aware of the circumstantial reality. And even those beautiful lads who got caught in the irresistible magnetism of their own reflected image.
Then, is the mirror who gives us a full vision, or is just a sight of our own reality enslaved to our yearning?
I saw in my own mirror awful and beautiful things, at the same time, both of ’em.
And even if I don’t like it, that’s what I saw. there’s people who is focused on seeing the bad part, and others that simple decide not to see it.

But, no matter what visions shows me (or the reasons for having them so dear), I have no choice than live with what I see: everything I am, I’ve been, and might become.
Audio: The Gathering – Broken Glass

PS: By the way I’m fine, just calibrating myself with all the recent changes in my life. Kisses and hugs to all of you, thanks for all your support.

Permalink 5 Comments

Next page »