Rolando André

Creatures that don't exist. Some that might.

[i-remember-now]

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Junot Diaz To Release New Book Wow!

From Publisher's Description:

The stories in This Is How You Lose Her, by turns hilarious and devastating, raucous and tender, lay bare the infinite longing and inevitable weaknesses of our all-too-human hearts. They capture the heat of new passion, the recklessness with which we betray what we most treasure, and the torture we go through - "the begging, the crawling over glass, the crying" - to try to mend what we've broken beyond repair. They recall the echoes that intimacy leaves behind, even where we thought we did not care. They teach us the catechism of affections: that the faithlessness of the fathers is visited upon the children; that what we do unto our exes is inevitably done in turn unto us; and that loving thy neighbor as thyself is a commandment more safely honored on platonic than erotic terms. Most of all, these stories remind us that the habit of passion always triumphs over experience, and that “love, when it hits us for real, has a half-life of forever.”

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Mud Colors

“You stand on the mud,” she said, “not in the mud.”

The sky was blue that day, and the clock struck twelve. Students walked back and forth on the quad, and the young man stood corrected.

“Our feet were in the mud, though. They were swimming in their own brown way.”

“Why do you always focus on the colors?” she asked. “Feet don’t swim in a brown way, just as fish don’t swim in a blue way.”

“Well, I think they do,” he said.

“Well, I think you’re silly,” she said, and walked away. Her backpack was yellow and green, just like the flag of Brazil.

He thought about how she walked in a green and yellow way.

They were both middle-class kids, and this matters much to the story. At least he thought of it that way. She didn’t think of it that way because she didn’t think of it much at that time. He then remembered that, usually, when he began to think this way—what she wears, blue or green or anything—it means that he was thinking about her when she wasn’t in front of him, which in turn means that the next time she’d be in front of him, he would feel strange, because all those thoughts that he’d thought of her would crowd his mind so much that you can’t he wouldn’t be able to see the colors in her backpack or purse. Like a traffic jam of fragments and words and colors, stuck in thought's paved highways. 

She was in the classroom. The professor talked about flux and permanence. Et cetera, she thought. Et cetera and more. She wanted to talk to her friend about what had happened in the place the night before. She looked at the blue sky through the window and remembered that when it rains the soil turns mud and that feet stand on the mud, not in the mud.

Thinking of the mud-brown or of any color at all meant that she was thinking indirectly about him. And now even when she thought of the word “color” and not of any particular color, she was, in some way, thinking about him. Color was starting to crowd her mind, and she could not believe this. She raised her hand.

“Professor, I wonder what Plato or Heraclitus or any of these philosophers would say about human passions in relation to the facts of impermanence and flux and the things of the world. How, say, for example, the feeling of love towards someone or something, the natural attraction of all things human and feeling, how that goes into the universe equation. Or something else, like the color of—” she stopped short, trying to think of another color, but, alas, there was none other to think of. So, she finished the sentence thus: “the color of mud… brown.”

The professor thought the question was very interesting.

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Ok this is kinda the other stuff I do, sketchbook stuff. It’s just more detailed/ I put more effort into it. I think it also tells more of a story. I don’t know.

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And the people bowed and prayed to the neon god they made, and what difference does it make? I love you so much anyway. And in your breast I gently laid, your arms surround me in the lake, I am joined with you forever. And the people bowed and prayed, and what difference does it make for you and me? All delighted people raise their hands.

Sufjan Stevens

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ANNE OF FIRESTAR BAY, CONT.

At the cafeteria, Anne and the boys eat sandwiches at the table.

“I hate the firestars,” a boy says. All nod along, except Anne. They do not ask her why she doesn’t nod along. But this time, she feels the need to say something.

“But it will end soon,” she says.

All the boys turn their heads, a little befuddled. Perhaps the vagueness of the comment has given it a cosmic dimension that confuses them. She clarifies it.

“Whether we like it or not, it’s going to end soon. And then we’ll be adults who can’t be awake through the night, and we’ll miss it,” she says.

“That’s what my parents always say,” another boy says. “But I’m not going to miss anything made of fire or night.”

The other boys agree and applaud him. All of them, even the girl, have black rings under their eyes.

The girl crosses her arms. “You’ll see it,” she mutters to herself. “It’ll end soon, and you’ll only know that it’s over when you grow up.”

But that night, sitting alone on the porch of her house, after having received forehead-kisses from both her parents, looking at the boy sitting on the porch of the house across the street, looking at all the children sitting on the porches in all the houses she can see from left to right, she thinks that she does not actually like the firestars, but only that she is supposed to like them, and that she is only supposed to like them when they stop. That is, she does not really need to like the firestars right now, she only needs to miss them when she doesn’t see them alive anymore. But all this supposing makes her sick, so instead she lets her thoughts turn to the black night sky, hoping that she won’t fall asleep, because she supposes that it is better for the children to catch the firestars than it is for them to fall asleep and let all the houses go up in flames.

Because if the houses go up in flames, then her parents will die, and if their parents die, then her own children will not have any grandparents.

But if her parents die, she won’t have to hear all this about tradition and the firestars. She won’t have to look out for the firestars at all. Somebody else could do it.

But somebody would always have to do it.

And she never told this to the children. This line of thought she kept to herself. Because she felt that she knew something that was hers in an exclusive way—that was only hers. It was the kind of knowledge, she thought, that would allow her to see the world unfold with more relaxed eyes. She could have rings under her eyes, yes, but she didn’t need to feel all that hate. She could simply look out for the orange dots and have a happiness that nobody else had.

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Esto fue anoche en Centro Medico. Esta este deambulante tocando guitarra y cantando en la calle frenta a Sala de Emergencia. En esto llegan 2 guardias de seguridad y le dicen que se salga de la calle que esta en el medio, el muchacho se mueve a la acera y sigue cantando. En eso uno de los guardias le dice: Te dijo que te muevas pal carajo o quieres que te lo diga yo de otra manera. Una Sra. le da $1 al muchacho y le dice: toma mijo y salte para que no te den. uno de los guardias le quita el $1 y le dice; Aqui no se puede pedir, la Sra. le dice al guardia: El no me lo pidio yo se lo regalé. El muchacho le dice al guardia; Ok yo me voy pero dame el $1 que ella me lo dio a mi. Otro guardia dice: arranca y vete si no quieres que te arreste. El muchacho le dice: tu no me puedes arrestar porque tu eres un guardia de palito, ademas yo no estoy haciendo nada. Despues de eso pasp lo que ven en el video. Lo que no se ve en el video fue que lo esposaron, lo tiraron al piso, y se lo llevaron al cuartel que queda al lado. Al rato llegaron como 3 patrullas a buscar al muchacho y radicarle cargos. lo que no se esperaban era que todos (si, TODOS) los presentes sirvieron como testigos del muchacho y contaron lo que en realidad paso y no lo que le querian achacar que era, alteracion a la paz. Pocos minutos despues de los testigos salir, salio el muchacho con la guitarra rota, las muñecas cortadas por las esposas y un hematoma en la cara y se fue del area tranquilo, no sin antes agradecer uno a uno a los testigos por su valentia y ayuda.  

Video del Deambulante…El  William Llamas y canta en el tren Urbano para buscar su pesos… Veanlo  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GhdaAF5S-lE

English

This was last night at Medical Center. This the homeless playing guitar and singing in the street frenta to Emergency Room. Along come two security guards and told to get out of the street that is in the middle, the boy moved to the sidewalk and keep singing. That one of the guards says, I said fuck pal you move or want me to tell me otherwise. Mrs A gives $ 1 a boy and says, making millet and jump to not get. one of the guards takes the $ 1 and says, here you can not ask, Ms. tells the guard: Not asked me what I gave it to her. The boy tells the guard, Ok I’m going but give me the $ 1 she gave it to me. Another guard says start and go or I’ll arrest you. The boy says, you can not arrest me because you’re a guard stick, plus I’m not doing anything. After that PASP what they see in the video. What is not shown in the video was handcuffed him, threw him to the floor and took him to the barracks next door. Soon came as 3 patrols to look for the boy and radicarle charged. what did not expect was that all (yes, ALL) these served as witnesses to the boy and told what actually happened and not what you wanted was to blame, alteration to peace. A few minutes after leaving witnesses, left the boy with the broken guitar, cut wrists by handcuffs and a bruise on her face and left the area quiet, but not before one by one to thank the witnesses for their courage and help . 

Video of the Wandering … The William Llamas and Urban sings on the train to seek their pesos … See it  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GhdaAF5S-lE

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With all the crime affecting Puerto Rico, with all the carjackings, the murders, the shootings, and especially the shooting of innocents, the police here concentrate their efforts on bullying and bashing a man who was singing outside a hospital.

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Crying at the Supermercado

He was in newspapers; he was the headline on all the local news shows and news commentary, all three wee channels, in glorious español; he was black-and-white in 8 1/2x11 papers clipped onto telephone poles and other walls: he was Rolandito Salas Jusinos and he had been by himself in a community park and suddenly he was gone; but then he was everywhere, of course: he was the headline, no pregnant celebrity could shroud the loss of Rolandito Salas Jusino, no lost dog could shroud the photographs of Rolandito on telephone poles and other walls. He was four and he was last seen in the community park near his residence in Toa Alta, Puerto Rico. He was four and he was by himself and he had mousy ears, as in round like Mickey Mouse, did he like Mickey Mouse? He was four and playful and he was light-skinned and he smiled he smiled frozenly four, in many news reports and in many news hours and news half hours and news quarterly reports and commentary sessions and black and white El Nuevo Día Puerto Rico’s Finest Newspaper shots and in many Front Page color shots smiling frozen four, a fit to print frozen smile in the year 1999, not many photographs but one ubiquitous one, his eyes in print and in monitor seeing the thousands the millions of eyes and mine seeing him.

He was called Rolandito like I was called by my parents and my grandparents. But this is about Rolandito not about me, this is about a four year old, actually no it’s about something else, it’s not about 1999 when he was 4 and I was 8, it’s about 2000 when I was a little older, a little young but still a little older, and Rolandito was still four even though he might have been older too, he was still four and frozen. I was nine maybe and I was in a classroom and it was always hot in there and I was in my science class and in my science class we were talking about something, I think maybe we had gone off-topic and the topic was done with and we were just talking, and I don’t know how it was brought up, conversation-wise, but I know that it all started with a raised hand, the raised hand of a boy, a boy named Christian, or that’s how it starts for me in my memory anyway, with the teacher looking at a seat behind me, me turning my head to see the raised hand of Christian, the athletic black-haired boy who never let me play volleyball.

He said, “Missi,” as in Missus, pronounced Mee-See. He said “Missi,” as in Teacher, as in Wise Lady, as in Maybe you have the answers because I didn’t ask my mom because I knew she wouldn’t have the answer, he said with his black hair and his raised hand, “Missi,” and Missi said, “Yes?” “Missi, I was in the supermercado the other day, I was with my mom, and we were at the cashier’s box, paying, I mean I wasn’t paying but my mom was” and the lighting was fluorescent and pale and people always look grayer then, “and two aisles ahead, I saw Rolandito’s mom.” Rolandito’s mom, unlike Rolandito, was not frozen, and the year 1999 ended and 2000 began and time continued for her and the only way Rolandito grew for her was through those digitized age progression pictures. “I saw Rolandito’s mom,” Christian said, “and I didn’t get it, Missi.” And then Missi said, “What didn’t you get, Christian?” And Christian said, “Well, it’s just,” and he even rolled his eyes a little bit, because he knew it was very obvious, “it’s just that she wasn’t crying.” And so Missi, middle-aged and attractive, Missi who had her own daughters and her volleyball body and her volleyball career and her volleyball hotness and who taught science and who had a great ass even though I didn’t know about great asses then or if I did I wasn’t aware on the “Look she has a great ass” level, Missi with the great ass said, “Well, Christian, life goes on,” she said, “We can’t always be crying in the supermercados and the supermalls and the supermax and the super wal mart,” she said or something like that, “we need to do what we need to do. Believe me, Rolandito’s mom had had a lot of time to cry. And maybe she still does, but not in the supermercados. It’s okay not to cry at the supermercados.” But Christian still didn’t understand, I could tell. I didn’t understand it either. 

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Soy de la rosa y de la mar 

como el escaramujo.

- Silvio

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And the people bowed and prayed

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Not Jaime Hernández, not Maggie, not Hopey, not anything. 

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[giovanamedeiros]

I’ve mentioned before how obsessed I am with “The dress looks nice on you” by Sufjan Stevens.

So the other day googling I found this very interesting comment on Songs Meaning , quoting Sufjan, where he explains where the song came from, It made me love the song even more, and inspired me to create this little comic.  

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A comic-strip rendering of the story behind Sufjan's "The Dress Looks Nice on You."