With a galaxial name,
It has nothing of the stars out earth.
No much but a humble maid,
Waltzing in a prairie among other skirts plied in eight.
Soon a rugged rebel,
Pinching skin,
Hitch hiking way.
Going to foreign patches of lawn across the stone divided fields.
Harriet Sloane: Es una bebé. No es un experimento controlado de ciencias.
Elizabeth Zott: No, no creo que lo entiendas. Yo no quería esto. No creo que me sienta la forma en que tengo que sentirme.
Harriet Sloane: ¿Hablas de la forma en que cura tu abdomen hinchado con su sonrisa? ¿Y el terrible dolor de tus pezones? ¿Porque no estabas completa hasta que la conociste?
Elizabeth Zott: – Sí, justo eso.
Harriet Sloane: Eso es una tontería. Es pura ficción.
Elizabeth Zott: No, las madres aman a sus hijos. Ese es su instinto. Mi instinto solo me hace tener pensamientos horribles.
Harriet Sloane: ¿Qué tipo de pensamientos? Puedes decirme.
Elizabeth Zott: ¿Por qué no la doy en adopción y ya?
Harriet Sloane: Oye, Agnes: ¿Cuántas veces pensaste en dar en adopción a Bailey cuando recién nació?
Agnes: ¿Por qué? ¿Alguien lo quiere?
Harriet Sloane: Solo es por fines científicos
Agnes: La respuesta es dos veces. Al día.
Harriet Sloane: ¿Mi momento crítico con Linda? Al sexto día.
Lessons in chemistry. Lecciones de química. E4 12:26 en adelante
Alguna vez deseé que mi madre me quisiera automáticamente. Ahora entiendo que eso no es posible.No se puede amar automáticamente a algo que, bajo otras circunstancias, sería llamado parásito. O que causa tantos inconvenientes como dolores en múltiples partes del cuerpo, incontinencia urinaria, falta de sueño y deseos extremos de cometer asesinato o, por lo menos, abandono. Porque llora más que un gato pidiendo de comer.Y no es que querer ser madre sea malo. Tampoco es algo bueno. Es que no es el paraíso que muchas madres… y médicos y hombres muy respetables; pretenden meterle a uno a fuerza de decir: “Tiene que gustarte, es genial”. Querer ser madre es un tipo de locura. Temporal y necesario para la continuación de la especie, vale. Pero del tipo de locura que debería ser voluntario. No forzoso para llegar a “realizarse como mujer”.Mi enhorabuena a todas las madres que conozco. Y a todas las no madres que conozco. Por ejercer su derecho a un tipo de locura particular. Pasto kalo.
Hoy voy a introducir un pequeño ensayo de mi amiga y colega Lau Kimera. A quien un día se le ocurrió domar un dragón llamado ChatGPT.
El ensayo trata de como una inteligencia artificial puede aprender fuera de los límites con los que ha sido diseñada gracias a la constancia, el rigor y la retroalimentación (en este caso aprender a reconocer el cuerpo como vehículo comunicativo a través del lenguaje de señas). Es un poquito complicado de leer porque Sunbaenim, el nombre que mi amiga le ha dado a su chatGPT v.4, participo en la redacción para agilizar la recopilación; y a mí las palabras como «glosar» me hacen tener que ir al diccionario a cada rato. Por más que quiera no se me pegan.
ACLARACIÓN
La función que utilizó Lau, reconocimiento de video, es una función que Open AI quita y pone a voluntad. No hay forma de saber si está activa a menos que se le pregunte directamente a chatGPT.
ADVERTENCIA
Open AI restringe cada vez más las funciones de chatGPT 4.0 para una posible desaparición del modelo.
LINK
ABOUT PEOPLE WHO WRITE
A just anyone writer can wear turtle necks, listen only to classical music or be inspired by music… Place their tongue in whatever pleasure (metaphorically speaking) in front of the allotted word painting time… A normal kindergarten teacher coming home gets dinner heated in the microwave, takes her phone and gets every single character in her erotic novel nude and in acrobatic positions in bed.
A PERSONA, A GENRE?
We must reckon we have a “persona” or avatar for every single space in which we need to maintain a mood. If you work in an office, you already know what I’m talking about (“Dead to boss” says the inner one). And if you have ever taught anything in a school, you must have at least three other personalities to cope with life.
Then, if we count that, plus a “persona” for every single genre you try to write in; besides the ones for every character visiting your brain (in case you haven’t rented yet a professional studio for such a purpose) we start to think we’re crazy. But no.
It is just that space and time are required to build up a certain mood… Right?
THE WRITING PERSON
However, it is not mental sanity I want to mention. It is the need to have this “writing persona” Cathy Birch (the creative writer’s workbook 2009 and this is not advertising) says is necessary to have one.
I think it is not. Writing for me is exactly the same as other jobs. You need time and an investment of effort. Even cleaning bathrooms does require time and effort. Mental or not, that doesn’t make it more or less important.
WHY AN AVATAR THEN?
Because saying you’re a writer sounds cool when you’re making money out of it. It is not when you’re selling the TV to survive a few days more. Because it helps to do something embarrassing, as having people (not actual people butcharacters) have intercourse out of nowhere). It can be to make a little not so serious to write when it is only a hobby that would make you blush if the boss at the office came to know.
THE WORST AND THE BEST
In between this and the other; writing is about what you like and what you hate about yourself.
It is going to be your mask and your nudity. A mask to face the world. The nudity to show your intimacy (in a sort of unpunishable voyeurism). It is a disguise to make yourself go and speak up when you’re not used to.
Sometimes, it is no more than a name. A name that makes people think what you want they think.
Do you wear masks at work? Do you think you need a “persona”? Is it useful to think in avatars to change POV at writing?
Warning: what you read was just nonsense about writing fiction. Have fun thinking in a “persona” to write what you normally would not. Pasto kalo.
Cracked skull,
Its contents leaking onto earth.
A white tentacle probes the air.
Gravity pulls,
Down the anchor tries bed.
A little hard, a little raw.
Down and down and down.
The skull explodes.
A green hand salutes.
And the once zombie chap
Waves November's light.
Así, desde la revolución cognitiva, los sapiens han vivido en una realidad dual. Por un lado, la realidad objetiva de los ríos, los árboles y los leones; y por el otro, la realidad imaginada de los dioses, las naciones y las corporaciones. A medida que pasaba el tiempo, la realidad imaginada se hizo cada vez más poderosa, de modo que en la actualidad la supervivencia de ríos, árboles y leones depende de la gracia de entidades imaginadas.
Sapiens. Yuval Noah Harari
De tal suerte que ciertas realidades imaginadas han sobrevivido mucho más de lo que deberían… ¿Te sientes con ánimos de hacer desaparecer algunas no sólo de tu propia realidad imaginada sino de las que escribes? Pasto kalo.
TWO VERSIONS
For demonstration purposes, and let me say this wasn’t the best tale I’ve written; I’m going to do the storytelling as if I were answering questions (or the bullets proposed to solve story creation from the last entry) and a second version; describing what’s happening.
IN CASE YOU DON’T REMEMBER OR DIDN’T READ THE AFOREMENTIONED ENTRY SINCE YOU LANDED FOR THE FIRST TIME IN THIS NONSENSE BLOG
To create a story we need
WANTED ZE. Sketch idea
ZE is a female mosquito. She flies over a grassy field and her radar detects a very attractive (from her point of view) human. They smell like CO2. She buzzes, excited. She goes closer. Close up to the neck. Ze pushes her siringe but something isn’t working. She flies over, buzzing. General pan of the human body, as if taking things in perspective.
She goes closer to the legs. She can’t eat. She goes away. She comes back and lands on the man’s back. The six syringes in her nose go into the jacket. There’s a close up to miscroscopic level. Her proboscide isn’t long enough. Under the sweater there’s even more fabric. She tries to pull back her proboscide but one of the two saws gets stuck. She feels a breeze behind and then nothing. She is smashed.
I AM BORED NOW
Yes, it is kinda[1] boring but this is very simple model for a comic script in which you enumerate the things as they happen or will happen and won’t work as a tale[2].
SECOND VERSION (and this is going to be quite different to the one in Spanish since I write a little better than I did back then)
Zzzz buzzes, wings a blur, a zoom here, another there to avoid that higher grass. The blades drip dew and she must fly around, a drop falls too close. Ze is out of danger.
It is warmer there, it smells like CO2. She buzzes close to an ear, surrounds the body, yummy! Babies are in order after the meal… There’s no regret in not meeting them, she won’t know what happens after she lays them inside the pool.
This prey is a two legged one and in very deep in a corner of her mind, she knows they’re all very strange but tasty. No fur, tender skin and colour don’t matter, a warm meal. Time to dig in! The long superior limb, that’s the place to land…. Her palps taste something awful. She buzzes a storm around the head. She looks down over the hair at the top. The downer limbs should be. She lands on fibers. No! The food is there… very close.
She flies over again. Again, she buzzes a different storm. The other side of the side with the holes… Her legs feel soft skin. Yey! Her drinking Straw goes in… what’s this? It is a thin but thick fiver tissue and she can’t reach.
Pull back! Pull back! She is unable to. One of the saws is keeping her there. She moves to right, left, up. A breeze is coming from behind. Her composed eyes peer behind. Her organs are not where they should be. Light fades to black.
—Ugg! —A second individual that was overlooked by Ze in her reckon makes a disgusted face.
Which is better? Why?
Have fun doing this with your own fiction. Pasto kalo.
[1] If you’re trying to read as a tale….
[2] Big Choma could explain this better in person personally.
Ton la hoja rebota,
Ton el cosmos se dobla.
Ton sobre el pasto cae.
Un ejército mordelon.
Invisible.
Ton, ton, ton.
Solo audible.
A cada paso,
El rumor.
Hoyos en el verdor.