The Little Archerboy

Between all my years of being a pacific observer of the human race I had never witnessed such an enigmatic young boy. I usually limit myself to watching people, watching those I'm not familiar with. I go to a market some distance away, position myself between one fruit stand and another and observe. It's really quite fascinating what one can see, like how the old lady complains about the freshness of some mangoes, how the vendors get people to buy in their stands instead of others, and how little children run around unfazed by the noisy place that is the market.
As one could probably have guessed, in my room there is a window, two of them actually. There is no better invention for watching unfamiliar people from the comfort of one's home than the window. (Also, this does not qualify as stalking. . . just thought I'd let you know.)
Thus, in those few and far in between odd occations in which I turn my attention away from electric devices, I enjoy taking a peek at my window. I bet you're not wondering what my window looks out into, but I'll reveal so anyway. It depicts a lovely, somewhat wild, garden. It has trees here and there, a road in the middle, and different shrubs and plants of diverse shapes and colors.

So here I was one day, and I decided to observe, to look out into the world (because, mind you, we have quite the amazing world). I saw something I had definitely not foreseen. A boy was in the middle of the road, taking aim at the trees with a real bow. . . y'know, the kind that shoots sharp, kill-you-on-contact arrows.
Strangely, I felt more awed than threatened by this presumed middle schooler. Aside from the safety hazzards that carrying a real, deadly, shooting weapon that does not look like a toy (it looked very professional, as a matter of fact) brings along, I was fascinated by this little archer. His precision was a little off but I did not see any "Death by Arrows" headline on the newspaper the next day. He was aiming for treetrunks and usually hit them.
Do you want to know why excited me more? The fact that this little archer was not only just shooting along as he walked to/from his house. He was using the garden next to my house as a training ground of sorts. Phenomenal!
After shooting his 5 or so arrows about 50 times, the little archer presumably went home and I was left to clean the drool from my hanging lower jaw. I saw a boy playing archer, thought it incredible, but he was gone, it was over and life goes on.


...or so I thought. Although life indeed does go on, the little archer was not gone. I'm not sure how much time later I saw him, but there he was again. Outside my window, taking aim with one eye shut (the other, of course, open) and actually shooting potential life-enders. I was impressed again. Again, I stood by my window, with my body hidden in my room, and with my head tilted towards the window the tiniest bit to be able to peep at the archer.
Now, I only possess the romantic idea of archery, as in that of heroes and the middle ages and Zelda. But I saw the boy's display of skill (and lack of common sense) as glorious. This activity, which I presume is his favored one, he is passionate about. It looks so simple too. Place the arrow, string the bow, shut the eye, aim for the tree, release the arrow. Place, string, shut, aim, release. Place, string, shut, aim, release. Place, string, shut, aim, release. Place, string, shut, aim, release. Place, string, shut, aim, release. Place, string, shut, aim, release. Place, string, shut, aim, release. Place, string, shut, aim, release. Place, string, shut, aim, release. Place, string, shut, aim, release. Place, string, shut, aim, release. Place, string, shut, aim, release. Place, string, shut, aim, release. Place, string, shut, aim, release.
Place, string, shut, aim, release. And the fact that he is not completely absorbed by such simplicity leaves me astounded. Life is not simple, life is anything but simple. Not even the little metaphorical LEGO blocks that build up life are simple. But he clearly makes his activity simple. And I'm left pondering whether or not we're a species that could handle simple. As Confucius once said, "Life is simple, but men insist on making it complicated." And here's the little archer making everything seem simple in just a small movement of his arm. Maybe. . . perhaps, he is one of those few lucky enough to be able to thrive on simplicity. Maybe it does not bother him. Maybe he is one step closer to becoming a full-fledged Nietzche superman.

The little archerboy comes and goes without a specific schedule. Doing what I've seen as his best: place, string, shut, aim, release. Every time I hear his shooting outside, I stand by my window and observe, trying to hide my observant self from this artist in his own right.
Yet, he has already seen me. He's already been smart enough, or felt stalked enough, to turn toward my window and look at me. Twice or thrice already. Eye to eye contact. From archer to observer.
He wasn't bothered. Rather, he might've taken it as a gesture of admiration. I don't know. Still, while he was able to go on with the knowledge of my observation, I am positively held back. The little archerboy can live with eyes on him, but the observer that is me cannot bear to be known as one. It breaks the charm, the hexes of the observation. From feeling enthusiastic about the little archer, I've grown cautious. From feeling strong while watching the boy shot arrow after arrow, I know I'll grow weak if he was ever to see me seeing him. It's an unhealthy burglary of strength, of stamina. I grow and learn and wonder as I watch him, as I watch anything; however, I would not let anyone else do the same to me.

My window will stand strong, the garden will grow greener and I sit in my house waiting to hear the familiar buzzing of arrows outside my window. I hope to see The Little Archerboy fevercently every day, yet my more intimate self prays for the boy not to see me back.
It's too much to bear.

Without further ado,

and not much to do

The Taleteller

Coordinating Conjunctions

For knowing what I should does not make it easier;
And I would become death and dying if it meant being part of your speech
(Nor would I let you fall then.)
But I could never embody that which makes tears swell in your eyes.
Or I could cite him in hopes of bringing a smile to your face.
Yet I should do so much more
So you could be happy.

The Taleteller

Hablemos de Chapela

Tengo celos.
Estoy celoso.
Me encuentro un estado de recelo.

Todo por una mujer. . .niña? Jóven. Sí, una jóven.

He albergado este sentimiento por un tiempo ya, desde principios de julio, o algo así.
Mentes cochambrosas y mentes propensas a pensar en drama, fuera, la X para cerrar ventanas está ahí, arriba, roja en mi ordenador, no sé en el suyo.

Esta jóven va por el nombre de Andrea Chapela. La conocen? Puede que no, creo que todavía no es TAN célebre. Puede que sí, y pues que felicidad para ella (¿creo?).

El asunto es este: Chapela escribió un libro que ha recibido críticas bien chéveres y suaves. Se le ha llamado una genio, seguro, y deseado éxito en su carrera literaria. Que el ¡Qué bueno! y el ¡Ojalá dejes marca en la literatura mexicana y mundial! Que es un ícono de los mexicanos y del porvenir. Le han dado "Güaus", "Wows" y la han llamado "La heredera de J.K. Rowling".

Andrea Chapela tiene 19 años (o igual y ya veinte, yo qué sé).

Su libro porta con decidido misticismo el título de "La heredera" (ojo, que con el MLA su título debía ir subrayado, no entre comillas). En la portada. . . bueno, yo no sé que hay. Una pelirroja (pero en serio) con atuendo fantástico, capa tipo alas de colibrí incluída, y algo. . . sale, ni pretenderé entender que trae en su mano. Claro que también su portada recuerda a un spellbook o libro de magia, que en fin es lo mismo pero la gente no lo ve igual.
¿Por qué no entiendo la portada de tan complementado libro?
Pues, caray, por la sencilla razón de que no lo he leído. Bueno, no completamente. Mi prima que vive allá lejos lo tiene, una tarde se lo robé y empecé a leer. Claro, ni la mejor escuela IB te puede entrenar a leer cuatrocientas y tantas páginas en cosa de dos o tres horas. Creo. Espero.
Pero igual, aquí mi crítica del libro este no llega a ser válida. ¿Que por qué? Pues, querido lector(@s) porque yo estoy celoso y receloso de aquella a quien la gente se refiere con el nombre de Andrea Chapela. Es tal mi estado que un review de mi parte seria totalmente subjetivo (aún más de lo que las críticas usualmente son).
¿Ven? Puedo analizar mi propia situación objetivamente sumergido en un mar de subjetividad.

Pero entre mis refunfuños y pucheros la cosa queda en que Andrea Chapela, a 19 ó 20 años de haber nacido, ya tiene un libro publicado, la secuela escrita y el tercero en camino. Bueno, cualquiera que la considere menos que una heroína yo personalmente acuchillaré con un stiletto (y no estoy hablando del tipo que es una daga). La mujer o niña o jóven anda en su último año de preparatoria (¿o ya entró a la UNAM?) y aún así escribe de manera que dejaría a cualquier autor orgulloso (excepto a Cristopher Paolini, que se tarda varios milenios en sacar cada entrega de su propia tetralogía). Seguro que Chapela anda viviendo los dramas de cualquier high school y una de trabajo que ni nos imaginamos, y aún así anda escribiendo desenfrenadamente y con convicción correcamineana.

Chapela empezó a escribir a los 15 años, en fanfics de (preparate/preparense) Harry Potter. Bueno, "La heredera", según sé, tiene aires Potternianos. Indudablemente, le quedaban sus fanfics re-lindos y re-frescos. (Aquí yo no ando haciendo crítica de su obra ni de su estilo.) Como se ha hecho de mi conocimiento, un amigo/conocido un día la retó a escribir algo propio, fuera del universo de Rowling, con personajes y mundos suyos solamente. ¡Pero qué peripecia Aristotélica para Andrea! Así fue creado y creciendo el mundo de Vaudïz. A los 19 años, este mundo ya está publicado.

Tengo, en mi escritorio frente a mí, un artículo de la revista Chilango que habla de Andrea. La estrategia era la siguiente: con el odio (que con el tiempo se tornó en celos) que yo sentía, ver a Chapela observándome desde esa página de revista cada día, cada hora frente a la computadora, cada minuto junto a mis papeles, con su mirada indescifrable me ayudaría a escribir. ¡Yo, a mis 16 años, podía vencerla con mi pluma y papel/documento de Word!
Pues la estrategia funcionó. Funcionó por algunas semanas. Ahora, el artículo de página completa sigue pegado frente a mí, sostenido por cinta adhesiva, pero se ha vuelto parte de mi entorno, ya no resalta. Ya su mirada se ha vuelto parte del escenario de mi cuarto. Ya mi odio irracional se ha vuelto celos de inseguridad. Ya no escribo por vencerla, ya ni tiempo tengo.
Una amiga mía (tocaya de aquella de quien hablo) quisimos ganarle, ser publicados antes de cumplir los 19. Jugamos a un juego infantil. Chapela, lo reconozco, no se llega a donde tu llegaste con celos, competitividad y deseo de cierto grado de reconocimiento a tan corta edad (o así lo quiero creer). Se necesita tanto talento como perseverancia.

La verdad, cuanto odio abarqué hace poco, y cuantos celos tengo hacia ti, Andrea Chapela, pero felicidades. En mi estado de subjetividad, no sé cuanto éxito te deseo - si es que lo deseo - pero reconozco lo que haz logrado y me impresiona.

Sin más que decir

y nada por hacer

The Taleteller

Dare to Fly

A mail made its way to my inbox, it's title? "Mirar al Cielo" (Look at the Sky).
-It feels I'm citing you a rather lot, sisvamp -
There, I was, prepaing myself to open one of those religious-ey/ mantra-ish/ spiritual mails filled with inspiring quotes and/or messages that are really deep but too adjective to put into actual practice in my everyday life.
Instead, it was an heads-up for a once-in-5-generations view of Mars from our blue (or grayish now, mebbe?) planet. Not that there's something wrong with that, I'm actually looking forward to it, but things aren't what you expect. Shut up, yes, I needed an e-mail to tell me that.

But really, I linked the title of the e-mail to this guy from Heroes (the series), West. He has the ability to fly - which one would ocnsider dangerous as there is no cover from eyesight except fluffy white things that get you wet and distance, which gets you cold enough y'know. . . die. But West said: "You'd be surprised at the number of people who don't know what's going on over their heads. It takes someone special to look up." I think it's true. I've started looking up like. . . once every three days, and it is uncommon for people to do so without any reason to. Take this one mall in front of my house, it has domes shaped like stars and white ceilings with details I'd never before noticed.
Maybe I'm trying to be special, one way or another. Trying to fly away from the flock.
Look up at the sky, I dare you.
There's something up, a big blue immensity. Simple? "Big blue immensity" I heard once that you can extend two sentences into two paragraphs if you have an avid eye for detail. Do so with your eyes, extend that blig blue immensity into a place to fly, a place like your home. A place only you can completely describe.
So, now that we've landed close to the topic, I was reviewing the scarce notes I took in my Literary Creation classes - which kinnda stunck, the professor was good and all, but perhaps a bit too erotic: I don't do erotism. I found this quote, which was both intimidating and inspiring at the same time.
"Todo ya está escrito, pero nada está escrito como tú"
"Everything's already written, but nothing's written like you"
Pardon if my translation was somewhat erratic. I've found that, although I am fluent in two tongues, translating is quite the hard task for me.
But that's it. I think that nothing is completely new and completely creative, as it is influenced by other sources, so to speak. But everyone puts their touch into their say. It might be the adjectives, the perspective, but it's a new way of putting it.
Also, if I want to be all IB-ish and scientific, people do actually rip off ideas without really meaning to, subconsciously. It's called Cryptomnesia, or sometimes subconscious plagiarism. You can get more and funnier information at: http://www.cracked.com/article_17103_p2.html
Be special, fly into the skies. Do what others do in a whole other way. Don't fly, glide. Don't look, observe. Don't consciously rip off someone else's ideas, be a cryptomnesiac. Dare to fly.

Without further ado

and not much to consciously do

The Taleteller

Pardon my rant. . .

So, apparently, blogging is not my thing. It's possible that the only real reason I'm writing this is because a very special certain someone asked me to. Well, actually that may or may not be the only reason.
So [a very overused paragraph opener, eh?] my life isn't exactly made of raisies and dainbows - I - I mean daisies and rainbows. It pretty much sucks without any real reason [again] to do so. Yet there's this little frustration building up here, and that little one over there, and a medium-sized behind and a family pack-sized frustration above, and a little more out there. . . It builds up to a huge pack of fruit frustration.
First and foremost is the fact that I am an aspiring writer. Sounds not very easy. Wanting to be an aspiring writer in your second language is harder. Wanting to beat a girl who published a book at age 19, while I'm 16, makes it even harder. Being lazy, per teenage rules, and having an over-active imagination makes it hardest.
Ever since 6th grade I've wanted to write a book, or a series. [Blacksmith's wife. . .]But ideas come and go too hastily and I grab one after I've started another and trash a third. I so want to put the batteries on myself and getta writing.
My current problem?
I'm working on a book and one long story, termed RSG. I got all my ideas for the characters and the main parts of the plotline with this one song. After another, I imagined a major scene that I'm gunna write in.
Song 1: "Savin' me" by Nikelback
Song 2: "Jai Ho" from the Slumdog Millionaire ST
So, I have the 6 main characters with names and drawn in photoshop and all. I got the ideas while still in school, I decided to wait for summer to get my book started. Indeed, I started writing it, but BAM. Out of nowhere (or possibly out of the continuous repetitions of Resident Evil movies in T.V.) I get the cravingto start a zombie survival story thingamajobber, a Zombie RSG. So now I've got two stories started, one which I want to launch professionally, another for my own pleasure.
BUT JEEZ. One would think that typing a book in Word is easy, but Word is in the computer, as is the internet. I'm ADDICTED to the internet. My focus changes from internet to Word every couple of SECONDS. I've tried to wake up at 7 in the morning, SEVEN FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, to write in my book/RSG, I just can't do it, the waking up or the focusing, and I hate myself for it.
I think the book has so much potential, I don't want to have it rot there while I go around killing Chinese monsters in the MMORPG "Perfect World".

There's also the problem of inspiration/dedication. See something wrong with the past sentence? WELL I DO. It's the other way around, dedication OVER inspiration. Heed my words aspiring writers out there. Dedication is much more important than inspiration. Sure, I can relate, inspiration is an amazing thing that works wonders, without it we might not get the itch to write, but we have to be DEDICATED. WHile dedication may not give birth to the brightest paragraphs, something is actually put on paper/document, and if it's there it can be proofread and edited as much as needed. Whereas if we wait for inspiration to bloom we'll get nothing typed down between bursts of it.

See my life suckishness? This is only one problem out of those others in my head, and it took a seemingly long blog post.

Do pardon my rant readers of the blog. . . or reader. . . or no one. . .

Without further ado,

and not much to do

except write a book-oo

The Taleteller