talesfromacaffeinatedpen
Loose pages sink drafts
14 posts
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Last Seen Blogs
acelezz
Acelezz
blindelephants
Jeremy Stewart
lindseybreadandwater
Its some mid.
desvidari
NEHT.R
ffxivpathoflight
The Path of Light
Text
Encierro
“[...] the desperate assumption that somebody... or at least some force - is tending the light at the end of the tunnel.” -Hunter S.Thompson
Hay días que ya puedo manejar mejor esto de dar clase en línea, pero otros, como hoy, son un auténtico suplicio.
Está muy compartido -y divertido- el meme de que en clases presenciales, queremos silencio, y que en clases virtuales, queremos participación. Es una yuxtaposición cuya jocosidad nace en la tragedia. Como todo buen chiste.
No me molesta que los alumnos tengan apagada la cámara. Si a mi me cansa verme la jeta durante 45 minutos/90 minutos, no me quiero imaginar lo mal que se sienten ellos después de 8 horas diarias de estar así, con espectros digitales que asemejan caras humanas.
Me molesta la falta de empatía de algunos de mis colegas. Se acordó que no habría represalias por estudiantes con cámara apagadas, pero ya salen los comentarios de que las clases “parecen sesiones espiritistas” o de plano maestros que toman represalias como poner faltas o bajar puntos.
¿Qué no se supone que somos los adultos en esta situación? Pónganse a la altura de que su puesto, como educador, es tener que tragarse muchas frustraciones y no desquitarlas con la morriza.
Entiendo que la escuela decidió no hacer exámenes para hacer más llevadero el encierro y estoy de acuerdo, es muy desgastante vigilar en un examen presencial, en línea es igual pero a la vez, es fatuo. No puedes garantizar que no tengan un teléfono, tutor o segunda pantalla con photomath o symbolab o lo que sea para echarles la mano.
El examen, como medio de evaluación, no debería valer tanto.
Lo que no se vale es andar midiéndose XXXXXXX dejando pinfle mil trabajos, proyectos y videos y tomarlos como examen. Estoy muy de acuerdo en cambiar el instrumento para evaluar a los alumnos, no estoy de acuerdo en hacerlo tan desgastante que lleguemos al punto donde los estudiantes ahora piden volver a los exámenes.
Cure me or kill me, gritaba Gilby Clarke hace unas décadas y creo que el péndulo se fue de un extremo a otro. Ya comenté al respecto en el chat de los maestros pero creo que hay una suerte de ostracismo hacia mí desde hace unas semanas.
En fin, ya veremos en qué acaba esto.
0 notes
Text
1/4
Trainspotting. You clear made a mark on me. You took your sweet dang time arriving to ol’ Mexico, didn’t ya?
A whole year and change.
And you never made yourself public. We had to drive to Altavista, that upscale small outlet-passing-as-a-proper-mall in the south of Mexico city. My parents saw something else, they didn’t want anything to do with an “antiparent film”.
And so I sat there, a rickety cinema with bad audio and maybe two or three other people. “La vida en el abismo”, life in the abyss. From Iggy Pop’s perfect entry, to the camera tricks, to the horrifying baby, to freeze frame fun, you had me.
Eventually got the book. Loved it. Stole bits from it for my own stuff.
Life passed, I got a job. I got a tv. I chose to ignore the sequel until it was inevitable.
And here we are, once again, reunited. Time has changed me, but you remain that snapshot. That cool britannia enamourement I just can shake.
youtube
0 notes
Text
Another day, another dream (The Maskless)
I kept a dream diary when I was younger and maybe that helped my brain remember dreams better.
Dream of the night of February 21, 2021:
I was driving a car, it was a rusted old 80s car, I think a citation, through a deep forest. A t-junction comes ahead and I turn right. There’s a massive parking lot with old Dina trucks and an unseen passenger said “hey, we are finally in Oaxaca.” It was a little foggy and cold and I kept driving.
A little mercado was just ahead, and the stalls were like huts built with corrugated iron sheets. Still, the normal mercado signage was in all of them. It was closed, and I thought “that’s the pandemic for ya.”
Time jump to me and two more people walking through a crowded restaurant. It was like a rest stop, but massive, massive in size, like one in England I visited with my parents in 2011. Think of any motorway services on the M1. So, it’s crowded, no one is wearing a mask and they are being loud and I panic, as I notice I’m maskless too. We are sat in a large round cabinet and my two companions are masked. Mine was dangling from my belt so I put it on.
Fade into me turning into a kid and walking away from the cabinet, and then two other kids join me. We have a map and I’m told the other kids from my party are in the junkyard outside the restaurant. I say that’s it’s a bad idea to go out as the sun is setting. One of the kids tell me there’s nothing to worry, that the map detects “evil things” and when she shows it to me, I woke up.
No idea what’s the meaning.
0 notes
Photo
Two years ago. Lake District, UK, June 2018. If I breathe slow, I can still project myself to that happy moment.
0 notes
Photo
We never left, did we?
0 notes
Text
Break up post party #54
“I think we didn’t actually have a relationship, it was more of an onerous contract with several loopholes that actually were as sneaky as the twists in Primer.”
“So, basically, she dumped you because of the angularity of your conversations.”
“Indeed, it was prime material for dumping. A veritable cornucopia of purple prose that stagnated like the smelliest of bogs in Exmoor!”
“Oh, bogs, aren’t we grand? Swamp is not good enough, it has to be bog.”
“Now, now, you’re Pythonising this more than it has to.”
“Bally sorry, my dear chap.”
We put our drinks down and for a moment, just a moment, I thought I heard a ghostly voice whispering “Dinsdale”
0 notes
Text
Punchlines for bad jokes...
“Hey! Wait! I’ve got a new complaint!”
“Mr. Cobain, PLEASE WAIT FOR YOUR TURN.”
0 notes
Text
Veracruz - Day 1
It’s not the walking. I have a semi-decent condition and could do it, no problem. It’s not hauling the equipment. Between our water supply and GPS equipment, it’s like carrying your shopping through the mall.
It’s the damn heat. Add to that the fookin’ humidity and this is why I had such a hard time in Tabasco. Still, it’s a job and I have no other prospects.
The alarm rings. 6 am. Even with the air conditioning on full Arctic blast mode, I’m sweating. I open the window and can see the ocean, almost still. It’s September, we should be on Hurrican season but nothing is happening.
I take the first of many showers I need to take in this weather. My work clothes are ill-fitting, but it’s all they had the budget for. Yeah, but those pricks from MexOil get free dinners and lapdances on the company’s money, aye?
Another day, another peso. I step out, double check I have my coolie hat and a bandanna and drag my feet for breakfast.
1 note
·
View note
Text
Do you want to know a secret?
21 years.
The waves crashed with utmost anger, but everything seemed quiet.
I remember walking towards her. She was at the end of the long jetty. Almost a mile into the sea, the dark and bitter waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
Her call was frantic. Why? She was the epitome of cool. She always had a calm demeanour and the urgency in her voice....
God, what was wrong?
She says my name before I can say anything. The place is isolated and she’s sitting near some rocks, waiting for a bottlenosed dolphin or a porpoise to wave hello with their playful fins.
I sit besides her, wondering how to start to conversation. She doesn’t wait. She never suffered fools.
“They know.”
“What? How?”
“Ruth. She told them after mass.”
“That bitch...”
“Language.”
“Sorry, it’s just...”
“It was bound to happen. And now they’ve kicked me out.”
“What will you do? I mean.... what about...”
“Nothing bad will happen. We move on. I will find a place to move to. I’ll get a job.”
“Wait, why did you call me?”
“Because I needed to tell you something.”
“Yes?”
“That secret of mine is something we’ve shared. What will you do when yours come out?”
I say nothing. The waves crashing now turn everything into white noise. A shoal of porpoises pops out of the water and disappears as we both draw a smile together, for the last time.
0 notes
Text
Little Devils - Alphonse
“You’re late, mi chingón.”
“Sorry, you know how it’s been as of late.”
“She’s giving you grief?”
“All the time. It’s the only thing she gives now.”
“And she’s taking, what, half?”
“Probably more, it depends on what the bloodsuckers will agree on.”
“Motherfuckers. All of them.”
“Visitation rights?”
“Weekends. One yay, one nay.”
“Fuck, man, well, hope you learned your lesson. Third wife. You fuckin’ started a franchise.”
“Shut up and pass me that blunt, you prick.”
And we drove away.
0 notes
Text
Little Devils
“Please don’t do this again”, Sister Bad Eve asked of them. Her frumious visage worked with most of the students, but never with this bunch of ruffians, armed with the worst of intentions.
Never would they let an adult tell them what to do. And a woman? Who does she think she is? Foolish is the person who dares raise a finger towards them. The Enforcers, we called them, but they called themselves La Banda. The Gang. The plowed through with violence, never thinking of the consequences, never letting a cry or a whimper stop their wanton search for something that never was too clear.
And the fog that made their goals hazy was fear. They feared the world and only through a gossamer-thin veil of self-confidence and bravado would they fool us, their victims. But time and tide wait for no one and the ravages of time would eventually wash away the veneer until they rusted and broke down, never to be complete again.
0 notes
Photo
We never truly let go.
0 notes
Text
Conversation - 1
We stop the car near our old lookout spot. It’s in that deadly pothole some people call “highway”. It connects Chiluca from the rest of the city and it has never seen better days. So many years since Tom-tom and Beto talked. It was going to be awkward.
The double burgers exuding inside the plastic bags, the pitaya drinks near frozen point. It’s like they never parted ways so many years ago. Still, whatever ideal concept of friendship they were taught proved to be as useless as all that Catholic indoctrination they went through at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow.
“Man, this feels like one of my dates”- said Tom.
“That explains why Nadia and you didn’t last.” Beto took away the bitterness of his words with a gulp of Pitaya.
Tom sighed. Desperation and relief. “At least he got it out of the way”, he thought, taking out one of the burgers. No jalapeños, extra pineapple. The way it should be.
“So, for real, how are you doing after the whole Sonia thing?” Beto never was much for idle chit chat. That’s what extra onions in your burger will do to you.
“Work, work, work. That’s all. Keeps you sane. Maybe y’all try it one day?”
“You don’t sound sane, brother.”
“Who are you to judge, Beto?”
“King of the asylum. I can smell my own brethren. Long may I live.”
Tom scoffs and drinks, wishing they added a little something to fortify their drinks. This is why you don’t reunite with old friends when you both hold PhDs on holding grudges.
“Speaking of living, how are Guppy and Caleb?”
“Guppy is still fine, six feet under, as he’s been since he was 22. You know he fought depression and depression won. Caleb, I dunno, wasn’t he working in the same building as you?”
“Yeah, but he’s been a little odd. I mean, he still works and he is the best one in his floor, but he’s socially odd. Sometimes he has this little sinister smile, sometimes he’s just his old goofy self.”
“Well, wary of the man with the two faces, because you never know the one he’ll great you with when you need him the most.”
“Good words to live by, Beto. Wish I could remind myself of them when the time comes.”
“Do what I do: repeat them when you look at your worst enemy, still sleepy faced on the other side of the mirror.”
“Maybe we should just talk shop.”
“Yeah, sure. You okay with me stealing that book from the library?”
“Aye, fuck ‘em.”
The book. That book. Beto used to be such a normal dude. I mean, normal in the human sense that we all accumulate scars that never felt a wound and emotional baggage over the years. But that fucking book, back in 1999, tore him apart. He swore that book was going to cause the apocalypse. He was sure three cults were after it. Heck, Guppy’s suicide was caused by that book. It sounds so outrageous it could be true.
But then again, so was the whole affair in Mazatlan. The one Tom never speaks about. No one will ever know what truly went down and how that blood will never wash off from Tom’s hands.
“Okay, psycho-boy Tom? Earth to Brint...”
“Yeah, yeah, this isn’t an orange mocha frapuccino, but it’ll do the trick.”
“Mazatlan, right?”
“I’m that predictable, huh?”
“It’s that or Sonia. Look man, I know I’m not the best one to talk about. I’m still reeling over She who shan’t be named.”
Tom nodded and started to eat his burger in silence. Beto fiddled with the radio. Queensryche’s Silent Lucidity was on. A gentle tap turned the radio off as they both agreed with a slight tip of their heads.
The sky was clear and the stars were able to shine through the usual night pollution.
“You ever thought about this being it?”
“Huh?” Beto was usually the one with vague questions, not Tom.
“When we were kids, Beto, when they said ‘well, he’s very bright, he’ll do great in life’ and you sort of have that goal and you end up not being ‘great in life’. Teachers, they see you doing well in one course or another, and then you sort of believe in that hype and you end up married with kids, frittering your days away in a job. Or maybe end up working too much, never actually getting married and just fading away like everyone else. Those dreams and hopes you get as a kid, fading like photographs.”
“Tom, stop.”
“Why?”
“Because you channelling Guppy before he killed himself.”
They kept drinking while the radio played shit Country music.
0 notes
Text
Neutral Milk Hotel almost killed me
youtube
An album I remember because of the one time I almost slipped to my death in Sheffield back in 2009. I was walking uphill Roslin Road (after threading uphill in a muddy Elmore footpath). I was just about to reach the top of Roslin when I lost my footing and slipped downhill amongst dead leaves, mud and rain. I couldn't stop slipping and ended up battered and bruised in Crookesmoor road, looking straight into a car that barely managed to stop. A guy came out of the car, looking at a muddy and scared to death Mexican. He offered me a ride home. I accepted. True story.
0 notes